


He That Parts Us Shall Bring a Brand From Heaven (and Fire Us Hence Like Foxes).

by TsukiNiSumu



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A Lot of Shakespearean Quotes, Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Academia, F/F, If We Were Villains au, M/M, More like If We Were Villains Inspired, Pretentiousness Will Ensue, Really really long chapters, Slow Burn, The Foxes are Shakespearean actors, Yes Even Andrew, all canon warnings apply, canon compliant death, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsukiNiSumu/pseuds/TsukiNiSumu
Summary: The students of Palmetto Classical Conservatory are known to be problematic, with broken and sometimes unamendable pasts. That’s especially true for Palmetto’s acting department – more commonly identified with the epithet of foxes – their tragic lives make them perfect catalysts for emotions on stage, but what happens when those same emotions overflow and threaten to submerge everything they’ve worked hard to achieve? What happens when the real tragedy isn’t solely the one presented on stage?Or: A story where the foxes are elite drama students who live and breathe Shakespeare and live on a campus where hedonism is a daily occurrence. They also try to get away with murder at some point. A story of tragedies, murder and martyrdom. [you can read this even if you don't know IWWV]
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Matt Boyd/Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Seth Gordon/Allison Reynolds
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the characters, plot and some of the dialogues go to Nora Sakavic and M. L. Rio (author of If We Were Villains).  
> You don't need to have read IWWV in order to follow through with this retelling, but I'd recommend it nonetheless because it's bomb. Maybe read it while you wait for my updates, or after I've completed the fic.  
> \---  
> All Canon Warnings Apply! Please tell me if I need to include specific triggers, please be careful while reading.

EDGAR:  
_The weight of this sad time we must obey,  
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.  
The oldest have borne most; we that are young  
Shall never see so much nor live so long._

_[They exit with a dead march.]_

**ACT I**

_PROLOGUE_

He hadn’t been in a car in years – almost a decade, really. The buzzing of the motor and the feeling of scenery dashing past his eyes sickens him; or maybe it’s the feeling of _freedom_ , something he hasn’t experienced in so long, that’s making him want to open the car door and retch right then and there. As a kid, Neil hadn’t exactly experienced it either, he hadn’t known what freedom was for the better part of his life. Hadn’t known its taste, hadn’t felt it on his skin. Then, for four – simply four – years he had experienced it all: freedom was chilly lake water around his calves, it was fingertips digging in the crook of his neck, it was a wooden stage that could be transformed into limitless worlds and could, in turn, transform him. Four years was all it took for him to become addicted on it. It was ironic how someone, who had spent his life believing he would never feel free, could miss it tenfold once having it taken away for real.  
Trying to fight the growing nausea pitting in his stomach, he sits with hands grasping his seat until his knuckles turn white. He realizes that next to him, Matt is also fighting a battle of his own: his eyes are trying hard to focus on the road ahead, glued to the empty interstate, yet Matt can’t help but feel the growing yearn to turn around and stare at the man sat at his side. Inside him a war was waging, he felt like a modern Orpheus, he couldn’t help but fear that, if he were to turn to his right, the man would vanish, or worse that he would be taken away from him again.  
Over the course of ten years Neil had changed. In fact, they both had. His hair that had once been unruly and unkept had now been cut short and his piercing blue eyes were now duller. Nonetheless, Neil still had a determined look to him, a fierce demeanor that Matt had seen him develop along the four years they had lived with each other. The four years that had shaped their lives definitively.  
Matt clears his throat and, with his eyes still glued to the road, attempts a casual tone as he says “You don’t have to do this, you know?”, Neil finally averts his eyes from the car window and nods once, his throat closed shut. They drive south in silence, Neil stays perfectly still in his seat, until they pass several billboards that reference Columbia. Instinctively, both men swallow. Matt knows how much that city means to Neil and Neil can’t help fight the memories that crawl over him. He tries not to wonder about a certain house, a certain diner, a certain club. Wonders if they’re still standing, if someone is now sitting at the place _they_ used to sit, if someone’s drinking what they used to drink. If someone is living in that house.  
It almost feels too much all at once, so Neil pushes it back. He closes his eyes and pushes as hard as he can. He reminds himself that he did what he did for a reason, that it needed to be done, that it was fine. He tells himself that he’s fine, and that now that he’s finally out he’s going to truly be _fine._ When he finally feels well enough to open his eyes, the first thing that Neil spots are the familiar trees starting to come into view. While he had been busy trying to lock his mounting feelings into place, the interstate had turned into a paved country road, a little bumpy and worn and the more they venture forward the more the trees become abundant. But it isn’t until Neil experiences the feeling of gravel under Matt’s truck’s wheels that Neil realizes he’s finally home. Or what had been his home, at least. They come to a halt in a makeshift parking lot – no concrete or lines to signal parking space, only a forecourt where people knew they could park. Currently, right in the middle of summer holidays, the only cars there are Matt’s truck and a ford sedan. Matt drums his fingers on his steering wheel, looking around the forecourt in search of someone. But Neil knows he won’t find anyone, this is not where _they_ planned to meet.  
“Take this” says Matt, before chucking an old flip phone Neil’s way. “I imagined you’d want to do this alone but I-” Matt trails off, his hands flailing around.  
“Just call me when you’re done and I’ll come pick you up, Dan and I live right around the corner.” Neil nods again and he steps out of the car. The fresh summer air hits him like a well laid punch. But what kicks him amiably right in the gutter is the sight presented before him. Palmetto Classical Conservatory hasn’t changed in the slightest: the cluster of bright orange buildings are still an eyesore, as they poke out from behind trees and over small hills. The campus looks abandoned, but it had always been its aesthetic – its inhabitants too busy contemplating life, nature, beauty to go around cackling like regular college kids. Neil takes his first steps in the fresh, groomed grass and that’s probably what Matt had been waiting for, because as soon as he takes another (shaky) step Matt starts his car back up and maneuvers it out of the forecourt. He’s out of Neil’s sight in a matter of minutes.  
The first thing that Neil comes across is the Hall, the Palmetto coats of arms looming above its massive doors: each discipline had its own, and they all hung perfectly in place under an incision that spelled “ _per aspera ad astra”_ , the school’s motto. It had a variety of translations, but Neil’s favorite had always been “through the thorns, to the stars”. He stands in front of the building far too long, stares at the Actors’ coat of arms for far too long: a wild fox whose tail wrapped around itself, underneath it said “ _vulpes pilum mutat, non mores_ ” a nod to actors’ ability to interpret many roles in their lifetime. Neil had always found the quote to be corny, but secretly he had loved how the actors were, consequently, referred to as _foxes_ inside Palmetto’s walls.  
He slowly makes his way towards the lake, it’s quite a lengthy walk in itself, but Neil finds himself slowed by the billion memories that resurface with each step he takes. When he finally sees the lake shore, he’s already completely on edge. Nonetheless, his heart starts racing oh so quickly at the sight of the expanse of water in front of him. For years, the lake had been their _court,_ their own battlefield – a stage unfolded only for them. And the trees surrounding it had been their spectators, the bristling leaves acting as scorching applause of adoring fans. They had also been their witnesses. The sight of the lake should reassure him, he should feel at home like he did a decade before, when his feet touched the ground of Palmetto for the first time. But Neil’s mind is foggy, his hands shaky and, as he pins his gaze on the crystal-clear waters, for a second he swears he can see it turn blood red. For a second, as he watches helplessly the red stain spreading in the water, he can smell the scent of blood mixed with cigarette smoke. Neil feels panic build inside him, he feels betrayed. Betrayed by the lake that had been his hiding place, his first home.  
The only thing shaking him from his self-induced trance is the sharp “ _Josten_ ” uttered from right behind him.

_SCENE 1_

The time: August 2005.  
The place: Somewhere in South Carolina, at Palmetto Classical Conservatory – a cluster of bright orange buildings (courtesy or the conceptual-art department) spread all around an immaculate forest. Interstates and busy towns long forgotten.  
Enter the players, seven of them at this time in our story. Seven exiles, with twisted gloomy pasts and futures fogged with uncertainty: woeful Romantics at heart.  
They stand in a room crowded full with furniture and books, all of them seemingly uncaring of the trash pooling around their legs and feet, too busy arguing with each other to notice their own surroundings.

Enter Neil, our main protagonist, our romantic hero, our _martyr_. With his cursed blue eyes and unruly dark copper curls. He sat on his own bed, legs tucked underneath himself, eyes focused on the white bedroom wall as his mind twirled around words, seemingly unaware of his mouth moving, playing, along with them. His ears deaf to the bedlam around him, perfectly used to working around the chaos – his mind traveling far from it, dethatching himself from it. And Neil was indeed dethatched, so much so that – in midst of all the chaos – his mouthing mouth emitted the actual sounds that were supposed to simply be hollow whispers in his mind.  
“ _Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke_ ” his betraying mouth lets out. And everything stills, six pairs of eyes – scattered around different sides of the room – stare back at him amusedly.  
A “ _Pericles_ , Josten? Really?” was blurted out from one end of the room, at the same time that someone right next to him scoffed a “Could you be any more uninspired?”. Neil only shrugged, eyes landing on the sheets of paper at his feet, messy (almost illegible) notes scattered across stark black words. The room was silent for a couple of beats. Neil knew very well that both his _colleagues_ ached for an argument, ached to taunt him, circling round him like sharks tasting blood. Neil had learnt it the hard way, after four years of bickering and retorts, he knew all too well that giving them a reply was like giving in to their game. Therefore, someone with even a dash of common sense would safely assume that a biting remark would only cause more discord, but, as we dive deep into the world of Palmetto Classical Conservatory, we will soon discover that, alas, none of the _finest_ alumni of this institute had been particularly gifted with common sense. And so, Neil Josten was about to open his mouth to harshly rejoinder, when a small, pristine voice chirped out a “I think it’s a lovely choice”.  
“You say that about every audition piece, Renee” although accompanied with a loud scoff, Allison’s retort was clearly spoken with a fond and warm tone “If I didn’t know you better I’d even go as far as to say that you do it on purpose, to get rid of competition – _the poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies_ and such”.  
“She would never do that” was blurted out instantly at Neil’s right side, but as only an icy silence answered back, the initial speaker felt forced to feebly ask: “…Right?”. Renee simply smiled kindly at him from her spot in the room: perched up on a small nightstand right opposite Neil’s.  
“What’s your audition piece anyway, Gordon?” Neil swiftly stole the conversation back to its initial place, hands instinctively folding his printed monologue in half – and then thirds.  
“It’s called _None of your business,_ ever heard of it?”  
“ _O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools!_ ” a theatrical wave of a hand flew out at Neil’s left side, arm outstretched and palm up, fingers extending towards the _fool_.  
“Spare us, Day” was all that Seth Gordon said before standing up – his towering height casting shadows around the small, dimly lit room – he was almost at the door when a hand grabbed his sleeve harshly, long manicured nails scraping the fabric. He turned to lock eyes with the blonde girl who he had been sitting next to a mere seconds before, both their eyes hard and determined. The girl’s penetrating stare won their silent war, because the boy was sitting back on the bed a few heartbeats later.  
“Dramatic” the voice coming from the windowsill pierced the room like an arrow, no one really needed to turn around to know who it belonged to, but everyone did anyway. Hearing his voice outside of theatre practice was always unsettling: it happened enough not to be considered a “rare occasions only”, but unusual enough that the remaining actors were able to get acquainted with Andrew’s looming silence. He often stood in the background of their lives, bored with their mundane tasks and conversations, only coming alive right before curtain call – like a toy soldier after getting its string pulled. Some people liked to call it _the pull of the stage_ , but Neil simply called it _drugs_.  
“We all know he doesn’t like to talk about his audition pieces” said Renee diplomatically.  
“Then he shouldn’t comment on other people’s pieces” grumbled Neil, his sheets of paper now reduced to small pocket-sized squares. Seth stayed silent through it all.  
“I don’t even get why we’re still bothering with auditions anymore” scoffed Matt, reaching over Neil’s side to snatch Kevin Day’s bottle of vodka from his hands “I could cast the entire play right here, right now.”  
“How?” Neil’s voice sounded genuinely surprised. “I never seem to figure it out.”  
“That’s because I’ve seen rocks be less oblivious than you are, Neil” Allison spat from the other end of the room, her nails absentmindedly scratching Seth’s arm “and rocks don’t have brains.”  
“I bet you 20 bucks I can guess the entire casting.” Matt ignored Neil’s hurt expression.  
“I’m not betting against that, I _know_ you will get it right, Wymack has been casting the same roles for years now.”  
Matt: “C’mon Ali, bet against me.”  
Allison: “Only someone stupid would. I’m not about to lose my money on this.”  
Andrew: “Someone stupid! Neil, it’s your time to bet then.”  
Matt: “Does anyone want to at least hear my predictions then?”  
Renee dangled her legs back and forth on her nightstand and excitedly nodded. Apparently, that was all the confirmation Matthew Boyd needed.  
Fourth year was completely dedicated to exploring Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories, it had been like that ever since Palmetto Conservatory had built their thespian department. It was tradition, tragedies were to be left untouched until their final year; when asked about it, Professor Dobson would reply that the four years of brewing feelings that the students hosted and coveted were bound to explode in a spectacular crescendo anyway, so why not exploit it to their full potential? And Betsy Dobson was right – _Bee is always right_ , as Andrew would say – because after four years of living and working in close proximity, after all the stress of their elimination process (they had started their first year with 30 actors give or take, yet, at the end of every semester there had been cuts to their _company._ Another Palmetto tradition) and the bonds that it had created, the actors were completely immerged in a constant turmoil of wild and overbearing emotions. Well, six of them at least: Andrew never seemed to show any sort of emotion outside of boredom.  
This particular semester, the actors of Palmetto were bound to perform Shakespeare’s Caesar.  
Matt smiled broadly and said: “Well, obviously Seth will be Caesar”.  
“Because we all secretly want to kill him?” asked Kevin instantly, the rivalry between the two had always been the strongest and most bitter and it had often amounted to physical fights off and on the stage; no one could forget the brawl that had ensued in their first year when Seth mistakenly stood on Kevin’s own mark as they played extras in the Third Year’s rendition of All’s Well That Ends Well. It took a very pissed _Lafew_ to break them apart, desperately trying not to break character all the while.  
“Secretly?” asked Andrew, voiced laced with genuine confusion. He was still sitting perched on the windowsill in Neil and Matt’s room, his cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he fumbled with the lock of the window before opening it wide.  
Predictably, Seth’s temper came to pay visit when he thundered a “Shouldn’t Kevin be Caesar, then?”.  
“ _Et tu, Bruté_?” conceded Kevin, never passing the opportunity to enact.  
“ _Sic semper tyrannis_ ” was Seth’s retort. Matt shot his hands up high, like a referee calling a foul.  
“Don’t get in between my casting, I said Seth is going to be Caesar.” When it looked like no one was about to protest, he opened up his mouth to move on, but once again got interrupted by Andrew. Neil stared at him dumbfounded at his sudden drive to partake in their conversations.  
“Kevin will be Brutus because he’s always the good guy. I’ll be Cassius because I’m always the bad guy. Allison will be Calpurnia, Renee Portia and Matt and Neil will be left to wrestle the remaining roles as always” Andrew listed dully, his cigarette pointing to people as he named them. Matt nodded solemnly, agreeing to the casting even though Neil could sense his disappointment at being robbed of the chance to say all that himself, but he also knew that Matt wasn’t about to antagonize Andrew when there was no dire need to.  
“Since Neil surely won’t be Antony, that’ll go to me and Neil will be Octavius – no offense.” He concluded, shooting Neil a toothy smile.  
“Why can’t I be Antony?”  
“Don’t take this the wrong way Neil, but you’re really not conspicuous.” Said Renee tentatively as she smiled apologetically. And Neil knew she was right, he had spent almost his whole life trying not to be seen – blending in as much as he could, wearing plain clothes, speaking only when needing to. His mother had taught him, forced him, to appear as insignificant as he could. He had spent the better part of his existence running and hiding and lying. His dying mother had made him promise to never slow down, never look back, never trust anyone and never be anyone but himself. Yet, years later here he was – he had indeed slowed down, he had indeed trusted people, he had become someone, he had learnt to take up space and to be seen. He couldn’t stop the guilty feelings drowning him when thinking back to those promises he had broken, but he felt grateful for the choices he had made. For the path he had stumbled upon. Nonetheless, Neil knew that out of his _company_ he was the one that stood out less – the picture perfect of inconspicuous. He was no Matt, with his clever retorts and charming smiles. Nor was he like Seth, with his bulky build and chiseled cheekbones, with his thrilling bass voice that made him perfect in roles of warlords and despots. He didn’t have Kevin handsome actor face, with his broody stare and emotive eyes. Even Andrew, with his constantly unemotional face and fixated stare, attracted more attention than him – if anything, Andrew was the one that, after Kevin, attracted the most attention from Palmetto students and outsiders alike. Andrew Minyard, with his small frame and beautiful face, with his strong arms and big hands, with his light blond hair; everyone wanted to know about him, wanted to get under his skin. Everyone wanted to know his secrets.  
And then there was Neil. It’s not like he didn’t stand out, no. With his stark blue eyes, curly dark red hair and a handsome face it was difficult for him to go unnoticed, that was exactly why his mother had forced him to hide those features for years – his eyes transformed into an indistinct brown thanks to contacts, with his dyed hair to match. The problem was that he had learnt and practiced how to disappear for so long that it now came natural to him, it was like second nature. And sometimes, some days, it was just too difficult to shake. He had spent his entire first year at Palmetto blending in with the background, so much so that a Third Year had congratulated him on being the perfect _extra_ in his play: “ _You know, sometimes extras tend to steal the show, I even forgot you were there to begin with!_ ”. It wasn’t until one day, near the end of his first year, when Wymack grabbed his shoulders and shook him until every single one of his bones rattled that he made the effort to shed the habit; he started speaking louder, carrying himself higher, forcing his gestures and mannerisms to be bolder. Thanks to that, he had narrowly avoided being expelled and had proceeded to do so for the following years. It felt surreal, still being there when better actors had been eliminated in his stead, Wymack and Dobson had made it clear that the survivors of the yearly purges hadn’t done so out of talent alone: they had survived because indispensable to the team, across the years they had been transformed from a rabble of bit players to a meticulously oiled machine of theatrical prowess. Their single assets molding together, their strengths balancing each other’s weaknesses, stark archetypes shaping their personalities. Rationally, Neil knew he was essential to the _company,_ his strengths and backstory making him the perfect _sidekick_ , but sometimes he couldn’t help but convince himself that he had survived the prior purges simply because he was the only one that could somehow keep Andrew in line (most of the time) or because, without him, Matt would’ve been too moody and sullen.  
Around him, the conversation had shifted to neutral territory, the casting list long forgotten. Matt had proceeded to down a good portion of Kevin’s vodka and was now buzzing with tipsy excitement. Kevin was back to studying his monologue, a particularly harrowing piece from Macbeth. Allison and Seth were staring strongly into each other’s eyes and looked ready to leave the room at any second. Renee and Andrew were deep in a conversation whose topic seemed to be zombies.  
Slowly, Neil unfolded his own monologue and forced himself back to a state of concentration, his thoughts melted away as they got replaced by Pericles’s own. _Antioch, farewell!_

_SCENE 2_

Neil woke up to the early lights of dawn shyly poking their head through the curtains of his and Matt’s suite. Grunting and grumbling he stood up with a scowl, fixing his stare on Matt’s sleeping body. It was their audition day and his body was buzzing with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Neil loved acting, so much so that years before he had decided to sell his life to the stage and hadn’t regretted it ever since. He lived and breathed acting in a way that few people did – and most of them could be found on the grounds of Palmetto, anyway. Clutching his monologue papers, he got up, changed and quickly exited the house. Palmetto’s sleeping arrangements were as odd as their expulsion policies: the first-years were housed in a newer building south of the Hall (where all the classes were held), its outside walls had been freshly repainted orange and, on days where the sun shone brighter through the towering trees, the light reflected off of them in ways that could blind the people daring to stare at the walls for too long. The second- and third-years were crowded together in the higher floors of the Hall and the fourth-years were tucked away in odd, isolated corner of campus. The fourth-year actors, commonly referred to as the _foxes_ , had been inhabiting an older, small stone and brick building. The bricks, that had once been a bright red color, had fittingly turned to a lighter and dull shade of red – resembling the orange that distinguished Palmetto. Fondly referred to as the _foxhole_ , the building had hosted generation upon generation of soon-to-become actors and their legacy lived on inside their walls. Each class left something of themselves for the others to discover, sometimes it was done out of good nature - like the weed stash that the previous year had hidden in the kitchen, accompanied with a lengthy letter that essentially could be summarized with a “good luck, you’ll need it”. Some other times it was done as a snarky joke – like the too big stack of self-help books that had been left on the big mahogany table in the house’s library, the year before Neil’s. It was still to early for Neil to know, but soon he would come to find out that his class’s legacy would become the most unparalleled.  
For the time being, Neil took off on his morning jog around the lake, the still waters soothing his anxieties and fears as he circled the perimeter of the millpond. He quickly ran home, changed into appropriate clothes for an audition, that Allison had picked out for him (“ _oh my god Neil you can’t show up to auditions looking like you’re the janitor of the theater_ ”) and began his walk towards the Hall. Palmetto’s theater was right next to it, a beautiful Renaissance Style building that hosted 2.000 beautiful seats. As he went to unlock the theater’s stage door – Professor Wymack gave the keys to his most promising students (or his favorites, as Neil liked to think) – he smiled a little when he found it already open. As he walked inside, thought, he wasn’t surprised to find Kevin sitting on the stage, legs dangling over the edge and gaze focused on the audience in front of him: wherever the theater was, Kevin was. He slowly made his way to sit at his side, not daring breaking his concentration.  
After some time, Kevin asked: “Nervous for today?”  
“Not as much as I used to be years ago” was the reply he got and it was true, Neil had spent the better part of his freshman year feeling like a fraud every time he set foot on stage and, technically, he had been. So full of lies and secrets, trying to desperately keep them all inside, preventing them from showing or seeping through the cracks in his armor, but it showed in his acting. He’d stumble through his lines, fumble on words or, when he got them right, he’d sound like he wasn’t really believing what he was saying. “ _Will you stop acting like you’re constantly lying?_ ” Kevin had screamed at him one night, they had been rehearsing a scene for hours on end, Kevin refusing to go home until they had it under their belt; Andrew had been sprawled on one of the velvet chairs in the front row of the audience, eyes uninterested and unfocused when he had casually annotated that “ _You can’t expect a pathological liar not to act like a lithe little mouse all the time, Kevin._ ” It had chilled Neil’s blood in his veins to have someone so casually figure his soul out, because Andrew had been right. Neil had been a liar all of his life, it came easily to him – like second nature – as easily as acting came to Kevin. Neil was a good liar and a mediocre actor because of it, but he knew that to reach perfection he needed to let go of the weights holding him down, he couldn’t carry burdens and constantly pretend to be someone he wasn’t while attempting to pretend to be someone he wasn’t on stage as well. And it had taken time, but in the wake of the beginning of his final year, Neil thought he had finally figured it all out.  
“You’re never as dreadful as you think you are, you know” Kevin’s backhanded compliment made Neil roll his eyes “I mean it, you have this way of listening to other actors – it’s like you’re hearing the words spoken for the first time. You act on instinct – it’s really a talent.”  
Neil didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to ruin the moment. Ever since he had come to Palmetto, Kevin had been a constant presence in his studies. At first, he couldn’t understand why an actor of his caliber would even bother with someone like him; he had in turn tried to push Kevin away multiple times, to no avail. Once he had resigned himself to having a constant thorn in the flesh – nagging and criticizing tirelessly – Neil had begun to realize why Kevin had gotten so fixated on him. Neil was the perfect acting partner, a player you could team up with easily in order achieve perfection. Neil could mold perfectly to each actor, honing and reshaping to their nooks and crannies. Somehow, during their second semester in their freshman year, Kevin had roped Neil into nightly rehearsals at the theater. They would shoot lines back and forth from famous Shakespearean scenes, but they’d also try their hand at improvisation (a skill that Kevin had learned in his first and only year at Edgar Allan Classical Conservatory – before he dropped out and enrolled at Palmetto a year later).  
After a while, Neil blurted out a “Do you really believe what Matt said yesterday?” when Kevin only raised an eyebrow at him, he tried to explain himself “About us having roles already set out for us.”  
“I think it doesn’t matter” he replied, looking almost annoyed at Neil’s worry “our job as actors is to sell the part, quit worrying about anything else and trust in the theater.”  
“But wouldn’t you get tired of playing the same archetypes over and over again?”  
Kevin frowned at that “It would be different characters, don’t reduce them to simple types.”  
“Kevin don’t you get it?” the voice came from behind them and both actors turned swiftly around at the cheery tone of their intruder “Our Neil is tired of playing the sidekick.”  
Andrew’s face twisted in an over-exaggerated grimace of sadness as he fake sobbed, then he abruptly stopped, a wicked grin carving its way onto his face “Don’t worry little _clever servant_ , I’m sure your time to play the tragic hero will come.”  
Neither Kevin nor Neil replied, knowing that engaging with Andrew while he was in this state wasn’t ideal, nor a smart move. Through the years, Neil had had the chance to learn more about the walking enigma that was Andrew Minyard. In freshman year, he had learnt that Andrew liked to perform while on drugs – it didn’t matter what kind “ _Prescription pills, really strong weed, bath salts… it doesn’t matter_ ” he had told him one day, his telltale drug-induced grin making Neil grimace. Throughout the years, though, Neil had also found out that it _did_ matter: Andrew wouldn’t inject and would stir clear of any drug that induced hallucinations or paranoia. Neil had also learnt that Andrew’s favorite was a particular type of edible called cracker dust. In sophomore year, Neil had learnt that their theater professor, Wymack, was the one that allowed and financed the abuse. Apparently he did so because it had been one of the two conditions that Andrew had put forward before enrolling at Palmetto Classical Conservatory: the first condition had been, indeed, the green light to perform (that included auditions) while drugged out of his own mind – Wymack, in turn, had him promise that, for the remaining part of the year, Andrew wouldn’t touch any other substance other than alcohol and cigarettes. The second condition had been the chance to have Andrew’s twin brother, Aaron, enrolled at Palmetto as well, with a scholarship matching Andrew’s own. Wymack had upheld both parts of the bargain, Andrew performed with however substance he liked flowing in his system and Aaron was doing spectacularly in the artistic department of Palmetto, or so Neil had been told. Wymack had also provided more than Andrew himself had asked: Andrew’s cousin - Nicholas Hemmick, but everyone called him Nicky - had been hired as their fight choreographer, personal trainer and movement coach. From the get go it had been obvious that Nicky’s passion was dance – he had thrived during their second year, when his task had been mainly teaching them how to interpretative dance – but he wasn’t shabby in all of the other departments.  
“Have you got your monologue ready?” Asked Kevin, his question obviously aimed at Andrew, who was currently jumping from armchair to armchair, leaving footmarks on the pristine red velvet. Feeling consulted, Andrew stopped on top of an armchair in the third row, feet planted on the seat, his pointer finger tapping his lip.  
“ _Thus_ ready _for the way of life or death, I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus._ ” He recited; eyes planted on Neil all the while. Next to him, Kevin frowned in confusion. The foxes loved communicating with Shakespearean lines, but they only did so when it perfectly fit the conversation. Andrew rarely joined in, but the few times he did, it never made sense. Matt had once joked that he probably did it to annoy and taunt Kevin and everyone had easily accepted it as a universal truth, but Neil refused to believe it. He refused to believe that Andrew’s choices were random: the blond had an eidetic memory, Neil had known that for a while now, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe that Andrew had simply taken a word from Kevin’s question and had scanned his brain for a sentence that included it. Not only that, he had chosen a line from Pericles – the play that Neil was presenting at the audition. Andrew had never cared much for the deep meanings and facets hidden behind Shakespearean sentences, but he cared about words. Andrew was almost obsessed with certain words and deeply resented others; context didn’t matter to him: words were either black or white, yes or no. Neil was aware that he probably was simply thinking too deeply into something that Andrew did as a game, he knew that _surely_ the other man wasn’t trying to communicate anything to him, but it was still fun pretending to understand small snippets and insights of the blond’s mind. Nonetheless, he chose not to say anything, knowing that Andrew would simply blow him off and laugh in his face.  
In a matter of minutes, the stage door opened again to reveal a smiling Renee, clutching a takeout bag in her small hands “I brought breakfast!” she cheered, her steps on the stage light and airy, almost inaudible “Matt should get here in a bit with coffee”.  
Kevin and Neil finally got up from the edge of the stage and walked towards the center, where Renee had already sat down cross-legged. Andrew was on the stage in a matter of seconds, lured in by the promise of sweets (doughnuts, knowing Renee). A few heartbeats later, Matt and Allison were walking in through the front door that connected the theater to the Hall. Seth walking in behind them a couple of minutes later. They all joined in on their ritual pre-auditions: sitting cross-legged on the stage eating breakfast like a team, knowing that in half an hour they would all scatter around the dark theater’s audience, waiting for their names to be called and preparing to have their soul left open and bare for anyone to judge and pick apart.

_SCENE 3_

Sweetie’s had stayed the exact same through the years, it hadn’t changed an inch ever since the first time Andrew had brought Neil there four years before. They had all been younger then, Neil had been more skittish, unsure and scared. They had all changed and grown, but Sweetie’s had stayed the same. Same faded bar stools, same crooked tables. It felt like being stuck in time, Neil found it comforting. Despite being situated only a few minutes’ walk from campus, it wasn’t a popular choice between Palmetto’s students and its reason was easily understandable: compared to the dark and classy aesthetic that the Bore’s Head – a pub on the southern outskirts of the campus – sported, Sweetie’s was a forceful eyesore, with its flashy colors and tacky decorations. Where the Bore’s Head served fancy cocktails and canapés, Sweetie’s had to offer cheap drugs and over sugary ice cream sundaes. Its brightness and tastelessness clashed perfectly with the broody exterior of the Classical Conservatory, its aesthetic wasn’t an artistic and meaningful choice – like the bright orange building that made up their campus – it simply was there, dooming the diner as a perpetual outsider; favored by outsiders. Apparently, Andrew’s trips at Sweetie’s had started on his very first week on campus, while everyone was busy settling in and some people – Neil, mostly – were busy trying to figure out escape plans and routes. Kevin had joined him soon enough, lured in by the promise of cheap drugs. It was rumored that Aaron, Andrew’s twin, sometimes tagged along, but Neil had never been present to witness it. The first time Neil set foot on Sweetie’s ground had been during the second semester of his freshman year, when he unwillingly tagged along after being threatened by Andrew himself: that night had resulted in a roofied Neil begging a kitchen cleaner to punch him unconscious, before Andrew could force him to do anything compromising. It had taken Neil a whole year to get over the “incident”, yet, a season later, he had somehow convinced part of his class to join them on their weekly outings – as a sort of team bonding exercise. Andrew hadn’t been pleased. Years later the foxes stood crammed in their now-usual booth, Neil squeezed between Andrew and Kevin on one side, Allison and Seth on the other, Matt and their newest addition Dan (Matt’s girlfriend, a sophomore from the acting department herself) at one end of the table. They were busy recounting the day’s audition to Dan, who hadn’t been able to attend, too busy preparing her own piece, when finally, Sweetie’s doors opened to reveal a disheveled Renee, eyes excited and a warm smile plastered on her petite face.  
“I got them” she chirped, clutching a sheet of paper in her hands. Renee was always the only one willing to wait outside the Hall for the professors to hand out the casting calls. She quickly reached their table, placing the piece of paper down and tapping it a couple of times excitedly.  
“Aren’t you glad no one took you up on that bet, Matt?” Allison asked grinning.  
“I didn’t get it _that_ wrong.” The other man complained. “I just assumed they’d hand over some roles to the third years. I mean… do they really want me to play _three_ characters? Couldn’t they get that vexatious third year to play at least _Lucilius_?”  
Dan frowned at that “you mean Jack?”, Matt nodded grumpily.  
“Maybe _Coach_ wanted all the spotlight on us.” Proposed Seth, shrugging barely. The foxes had taken to referring to Professor Wymack as “coach” in their freshman year, when, one night, Seth had drunkenly revealed how his parents had disowned him for taking up a career in acting instead of football. Laila Dermott – an eccentric actress that had been eliminated in second year – had snorted and declared that “ _Prof Wymack was probably a coach in another life I’d say it’s close enough._ ” Before patting him on the shoulders sympathetically.  
“Don’t you think it’s a little bit much like this?” grumbled Matt again. “At least they gave a minor role to Dan.”  
The girl smiled fondly at him as she scanned the page and jokingly said “ _Titinius_ … Gotta love performing in drag.”  
“Don’t complain, if they chose you over all the others it means you’re worth it.” Called out Kevin from next to her, Neil knew how Kevin was too self-focused to take her under his wing, but he could see how the older guy respected her. Getting a backhanded compliment from Kevin Day wasn’t an everyday occasion after all.  
The conversation picked back up easily with the foxes dancing around various speculations regarding the staging and the performances. They wondered about the costumes and the changes they’d bring to the production. By the time they walked out of the diner, the moon had settled in its highest point in the sky. The campus was quiet and eerie feeling, its sparseness and extent making them feel like they were setting foot inside a ghost town. After four years, the students had gotten used to the looming feeling surrounding their campus, and the foxes loved it. Unphased by the eerie quiet they made their way towards their home, Matt kissing Dan goodnight as they walked past the Hall.  
When the foxhole came into view, the candid moonlight transforming its orange bricks into a warm colorless cluster, their decision to deviate to a different path was unspoken but unanimous.  
The lake was waiting for them, calm and quiet and challenging. It waited to witness their pleasures and sufferings and to feed from them. It had waited for them all summer, ready to bask in the glory of its admirers. The lake was their companion – their last addition to their group. Its waters were warm and welcoming, luring them closer like a siren’s song. And the foxes drew closer and closer until they could see themselves reflected on its still surface, the moon hovering right over their seven heads. They stared at the reflection for several heartbeats, the only thing moving being Andrew’s arms as he lit a cigarette, the small flame of his lighter reflecting brightly on the waters. Neil unconsciously took a deep breath as cigarette smoke wafted towards him. They were _home_.  
The first to answer the siren call was Allison, as she quickly slid out of her stiletto heels and lowered herself towards the water, dunking her legs inside causing the foxes’ reflection to ripple and shake. Matt joined her right after. The two playfully moved their legs back and forth as they coaxed Renee to follow.  
“ _How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!_ ” she exclaimed blissfully, a small breeze had risen between the trees and it was moving her silver hair sweetly around her face. Allison dragged Neil, who had been standing the closest to her, down to sit next to him before dramatically grasping both his hands to continue Renee’s verses: “ _Here will we sit and let the sounds of music / Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night-”.  
_“ _Become the touches of sweet harmony._ ” Concluded Kevin, joining her.  
“Touching.” Commented Andrew cynically, they had all adjusted in line across the riverside except for him – who had chosen to sit on the wooden dock a couple of steps away. It had once been used as a berth, but it had been years, decades even, ever since the lake had hosted any boats. The only evidences they had ever been there were the splintering dock and a small shed on the other side of the river that held multiple sailing tools.  
“This is really going to be our last year.” Sighed Matt, as he went back to staring at their reflection, legs still immerged in the water “ _We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone._ ”  
“Indeed. Seems like yesterday my dad was shouting at me for throwing my life away.” Spoke Seth, hands miming a football shot. Allison snuggled her head on his shoulder in support. She also knew what it felt like to have your parents not be supporting of your choices.  
“I never thought I’d be disgraced over Shakespeare.” Joked back Allison.  
“At least they know what you’re doing. My father still thinks I’m studying economics in Chicago.” Snorted Matt.  
“Mine would’ve killed me.” Mumbled Neil, lacing his words with a hint of irony. Everyone around him chuckled at that, unaware of the reality hiding behind his confession. He could feel Andrew’s eyes lock on him from across the dock, he was the only one aware of the truth in Neil’s words; he had seen his scars after all. Had his father not been locked out in prison, he would’ve indeed killed him – admittedly not over his career path. He also knew that, had his mother been alive, he would’ve gotten a sound beating for even thinking of climbing onto a stage.  
“ _A little more than kin, and less than kind._ ” Was all Kevin could muster, his stare dark and unfocused. Neil could almost see a silhouette of a menacing boy reflected onto them. Neil could easily guess what turn his colleague’s thoughts had taken. For how much Kevin refused to talk about it, and everyone pretended not to remember, the foxes could still all clearly recall the state he had been in when he had joined Palmetto their first year. It had taken Wymack weeks before he successfully lured Kevin back on stage (“ _An actor terrified of setting foot on stage, that’s just lovely!_ ” had taunted Seth “ _What’s next? A swimmer afraid of water?_ ”), no one knew what had went down in his freshman year at Edgar Allan Conservatory, but whatever it was it couldn’t have been pleasant.  
Wymack had, truthfully, taken each and every one of them – broken little things, with cuts and scars as deep and wide as they could be – and had given them a stage: a place where you could bleed upon and thrive through it. A place where scars and cuts made you stronger, deeper, harder. Wymack had handpicked them one by one, he had sought them out and given them a new opportunity. He had found Neil during his senior year, acting in a busted-out play on a sad little stage in the only high school that Millport, Arizona had to offer. Neil had been lured on that stage with the promise of school credits, nothing more, nothing less, instead he had gotten out of there with a scholarship and a one-way ticket to South Carolina. Seth had had a similar fate. Renee and Andrew had been scouted in juvie, while Allison and Matt had been acting of fancy stages in private schools, holding on to their scripts and stages for dear life. Kevin was the only fox, from the last standing lineup, that had willingly sought out Palmetto – granted he had showed up in a million different pieces and had been attempting to tape himself back together ever since.  
“God, our lives have been miserable.” Moaned Matt, his legs springing up from the waters.  
“ _In this vile world? So, fare thee well._ ” Replied Allison, easily hoisting herself up and quickly walking back towards their home. They all left one by one. Silently retreating when they felt ready to leave. Neil sauntered the longest, staring at the expanse of water and breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke that still lingered across the dock.  
  


_SCENE 4_

If there was one thing that Neil had learnt throughout his four years at Palmetto Classical Conservatory was that Professor “Coach” Wymack hated tardiness – the memory of “Gorilla” Hawking, during their second year, running the entire perimeter of Palmetto at 8:10 in the morning after showing up to class five minutes late still traveled around the thespian department as a cautionary tale: running 50 acres first thing in the morning wasn’t on anyone’s bucket list at Palmetto, especially with all the cigarettes everyone smoked. And that’s why the entirety of the foxes stood sleepily in Wymack’s class – a room resembling more a gym than a class, full of machinery, lifting weights and props – ten minutes before the beginning of their class at 7:50 am on their first day back. They, barely, stood on their feet, some of them using each other’s as supports, and clutched huge steaming mugs of coffee they had grabbed from the refectory on their way to class. At 8:00, like a swiss clock, Wymack strode inside, as gruff looking as always.  
“Well?” he half grumbled as he took in the seven remaining foxes “Sit your asses down.”  
Everyone sat their asses down. No one spoke, but everybody could feel the rising thrill of excitement: Wymack’s teaching ways were… unusual to say the least – a stark contrast to Betsy’s more traditional approach. In Betsy’s lair they all sat with desks and picked apart their plays like careful psychiatrists. They analyzed and discussed around mugs of hot cocoa as Betsy enthusiastically prodded them on, encouraging them to dig deeper, to nestle themselves in the characters’ mind further – it was a work of brains and emotionality, one that Neil didn’t particularly excel at. Wymack’s classes, instead, were a completely different story altogether: he worked on physicality, and worked his students to the bone at that. Wymack’s lair wasn’t a classroom, but a studio: he had a wide mirror on one side of the room and gym equipment on the other (“ _Just in case we have to do a particular exercise_ ” he always explained when asked about them, but in four years Neil had never seen them used. Which made him fear that the nature of said exercises were more of a punishment than a learning occasion; à la Hawking Marathon.), scattered around the room were multiple props, a couple of chairs and many, many yoga mats: usually where the foxes sat on.  
Wymack grabbed a chair and unceremoniously propped it in front of the semicircle the foxes had made on the floor, he began to talk as he sat down: “I hope you don’t expect me to start this off with a encouraging speech over this being your last year – I’ll leave that to Betsy.”  
When no one spoke, he clapped his hands elatedly and said “Just know that I want you to give it your all – no half assed bullshits – I’ll push you until I get what I expect. I don’t care what it takes.” He settled his eyes pointedly to Neil as he growled a “I know what you’re all capable of and I’ll be fucking damned if I don’t coax it out of you by the end of this year. Now get to your feet and let’s begin.”  
They started with some stretching poses as they gradually warmed up to being around Wymack again. He was rowdy and at times menacing, but he was a damn good teacher. He kept them constantly on edge and ready to go to the point that the foxes never knew what would come next; so no one was particularly shocked when, as they all held their downward dog pose, Coach Wymack clapped his hands again before his voice boomed a “Renee, what was Matt wearing?”. Everyone knew better than move or raise their gaze to the others: _what were they wearing?_ was one of Wymack’s preferred exercises, it kept the foxes alert and reminded them to have to constantly keep in touch with their surroundings. When Renee stuttered and listed only a couple of – wrong – items of clothing, Wymack scolded her harshly and ordered her to begin a couple of pretty taxing lunge exercises. Everyone else held their stretching position as they heard the telltale sounds of Renee’s quiet movements on the laminate flooring.  
“ _Andrew_ , what was Neil wearing?” came next, the question echoing slightly around them. Neil fought his instinct to gingerly perk his head up and for a second the only sounds in the room were coming from Renee, a rhythmic sound of footsteps going _up-down-up-down._ Then, Andrew spoke: “Ugly blue t-shirt with white rims, dark gray jeans, black socks and consumed gray sneakers” a few heartbeats of silence, then, after a sigh, he added “also Palmetto’s horrid jersey.”  
“That’s unfair coach.” Protested Seth’s voice, he was the only one dumb enough to dare interrupt Wymack’s exercises. “Neil has like, five outfits.”  
The remaining foxes broke out into a set of disordered noises of agreement until Wymack settled them all down with a democratic: “Do I look like I give a fuck?” when no one felt like replying he pushed on “Keep complaining and you’ll spend the rest of class in that position until you pass out.” Neil, that could already feel blood go to his head, hoped it wouldn’t get to that point. A couple of instances of silence, scanned by Renee’s _up-down-up-down_ footing, and then Wymack picked the game back on with a “Allison, what was Matt wearing?”

By the time they finished their rounds, they looked all much more disheveled. Even Allison, that usually managed to look flawless no matter what, appeared red cheeked and with a few hairs out of place. Wymack didn’t waste any time as he motioned to foxes to sit in a tight circle on the floor, he then positioned the chair he had been sitting on in the center. Neil didn’t like the look of it.  
“What’s the biggest impediment in a performance?” Inquired Wymack as he made his way towards the furthest wall, putting space between his foxes and himself. He was setting the stage for something.  
“Fear.” Replied Matt as Allison spat “Uncertainty.”  
Kevin, that sat right next to Neil, shook his head preponderantly “It’s the fear of vulnerability.”  
Wymack nodded in his direction, but pushed on: “When we fear of being vulnerable what’s the first thing we hide?”  
A eerie stillness crept up the room, whether the other actors were thinking about an answer or were frozen at the realization of what was about to happen Neil couldn’t say, but he himself tried to stifle his shakiness as he whispered “ _Emotions_ ”.  
“And Shakespeare’s worlds are built on emotions, so I can’t have you going on stage with that kind of fear hiding in your shadows;” he stopped to look each and every one of them in the eyes. A challenge laid in his dark stare. “we’re going to ban that fear. Starting from today there won’t be any place for it on _my_ stage. No more hiding in your own shadows, you’re all big boys now.”  
As Wymack’s speech came to a close, his stare landed pointedly on Neil, who stared back refusing to look away. Wymack didn’t need to speak for Neil to know he was going to be called first. He quickly assessed the room and the way his Professor had set it up – the empty chair positioned in the center now looked more like an interrogation chair. Soundlessly, Neil stood up and took the couple of steps he needed to reach it, then he sat back down again. From his new position, he could perfectly look down on some of his classmates – he could perfectly see Matt and Allison and Renee and Seth only through his peripheral view. Andrew and Kevin where right behind him, but he didn’t need to see them to picture Kevin’s intrigued stare and Andrew’s constantly bored expression. Deep down, he was glad he wouldn’t have to stare at it as Wymack attempted to have Neil’s soul bared for everyone to see.  
Back in his first year, Neil would’ve been preparing himself to lie through his teeth in an exercise like this, but, after four years with the people that sat at his waitingly at his feet, he knew he needn’t to.  
“Neil, everyone, listen to me because I won’t repeat myself:” Neil braced himself to absorb the task awaiting for him “I’m going to give you an emotion and you’re going to think about situations that channel that.”  
Wymack closed his mouth to let everyone take their time to get acquainted with the idea, when everyone nodded he pushed on: “I don’t care to hear about those situations – I ain’t your therapist – what I’ll need you to do next is think about images that encapsulate them perfectly. It has to be a stark clear image and I want you to blurt it out as soon as they show up in your mind. The narrower the image, the better.”  
“What do we even need something like that for.” Complained Seth, he attempted to sound bored and dethatched, but even from his peripheral vision Neil could see him playing with his hands nervously. Out of the remaining foxes, Seth was the most reluctant to deal and explore emotions (Andrew notwithstanding) – when asked he would simply groan that he was “a man”.  
“The images act as shortcuts, moron.” Replied Kevin from behind Neil’s back. “It helps you _feel_ those emotions instead of _pretending_ to feel them.”  
“You can choose to try it, Seth, or you can get up and leave – I don’t care.” Chided Wymack, moving to unceremoniously open the studio’s door. “But when we’ll all be done with this exercise, I’ll expect you all to step up your emotion-game, if you fall behind it’ll be on you and you only.”  
Despite Seth’s deep scowl, he remained seated on the floor.  
“Good.” Clapped the teacher. “Neil, your emotion is _happiness_ – take all the time you need to come up with scenarios in your head, I need _three_ crystal clear images.”  
As the attention shifted back to Neil, he promptly closed his eyes. The idea of digging deep into his memory sounded easy on paper, but it sure as hell wasn’t easy to practice – especially knowing he had everyone’s undivided attention and with an increasingly fastening pulse. For the first three minutes Neil concentrated solely on getting his breathing back in place and his pulse to slow down to a normal pace. When it almost felt okay, he tried to scan his memory for happy times. Neil knew he had an advantage in that, his early life hadn’t notoriously been happy per se, so he knew exactly where to focus his search in order to find what he needed: his time with the foxes, although short, had been the happiest of his life.  
The first situation hit him hard soon after: he could still feel the water around his legs and still hear his friends talk about life. He could hear Kevin quote Shakespeare and hear Allison’s laugh. He could see Renee’s smile. It took him only a couple more beats to realize he was picturing the events of the night before and, before he knew it, he had blurted out “ _Lake_ ”.  
He still had his eyes closed shut and silence still surrounded him as he got hit by a wave of panic. _This_ was the fear of vulnerability Wymack had been talking about: the backlash of having your soul laid open wide for others to see, for others to speculate over. And Neil realized just how _hard_ it was _._ That it was hard to do it even in front of the people that loved and knew him, the people that, he knew, would never judge no matter what. And, Neil realized, it was a completely new experience. He realized that he had never felt like that while acting on stage in front of 2.000 people. _Am I supposed to feel like this? Is this what taking acting to a whole new level feels like?_ He asked himself and immediately tried to reel the panic in. He tried not to think about it for the time being, tried not to think about how hard it would be to truly lay his soul out for outsiders to gawk at. Tried to still the panic that came with the doubts, the what ifs, the “ _am I not enough_ ”.  
When he finally brought his attention back to the task at hand, he felt himself grow stiffer, a little more barred and wary. He steered his thoughts to a more neutral territory, not because he wanted to hide from the foxes, but for his own sake. After that, it took him a while to even come up with anything: his mind had completely blanked out. Eventually he saw a smiling Matt in the morning, coaxing him out of bed to get ready for class, a steaming mug of coffee in his offering hands. It was a pleasant image, displaying one of the duo’s many rituals. It was a picture that Neil especially treasured: one of the first kind gestures he had ever experienced in his life. Neil could still feel the shock of waking up to a gentle gesture, while in a warm bed – not having to hurry up and escape or run for his life. And, still basking in the warmth of the memory, the words “ _Morning coffee_ ” were out of his mouth before he could stop them. It wasn’t until he heard a snort coming from somewhere around him – followed by the sound of a slap echoing in the room – that he was forcefully ripped out of his daze. Neil opened his eyes just an inch, concentration completely crumbling around him, piece by piece. “You’re doing great Josten, reel it in.” And, with Wymack’s encouragement, Neil reeled it in.  
The final situation felt like the hardest to figure out, Neil scanned through several possible choices and he was left both shocked and pleased in realizing just how many happy memories he truly owned. Right when he started thinking about his weekend-only morning runs, though, his thoughts halted, body stilling. He stilled as realization hit him: years before, it had been the sole act of running that had brought him happiness (not pure happiness, just a lack of negative feelings) now, as Neil sat in that uncomfortable chair, he realized that what brought him joy was the feeling of coming home from said run. It was running, but coming back. Running for the sake of enjoyment and then going back, not running for the sake of necessity. Neil was running knowing that, no matter where he went, he had somewhere to come back to – multiple places to come back to, even. And Neil stopped completely, breath caught in his throat, because his next image was that of a key held perfectly in his palm. Out of all the keys he had received ever since becoming a fox – the stage door keys that Wymack gave him, the set of keys to Abby’s apartment, the keys to the foxhole – he was picturing a specific one. A key that he had traced over and over in his palm ever since he had gotten it years back. A key to a house in Columbia, roughly an hour away from Palmetto. And just like that, his last image is a “ _Key”_ blurted out with reverence and fondness.  
As soon as Neil opened his eyes, he abruptly stood up and, wanting nothing more than to leave that chair, he quickly scurried back to his place on the floor. It took him a while to realize just how deafening the silence in the room was. Everyone either adverting their eyes or shuddering and Neil understood it perfectly because, although they couldn’t have heard his thought processes or his reasonings behind the images he had chosen, they all had been there to witness it happen. Wymack gave them a couple minutes to collect themselves before announcing “Now that we’re done with the trial run, it’s time to take out the real deep emotions, none of this first-grade-acting bullshit.”  
All of their eyes pinned him with confused stares as he continued on “Simple emotions like happiness and anger are one of the easiest to dish out. Neil did great right now, but, as I said before, in the next few weeks we’re going to dig deeper. Now, we’ll truly get serious – Kevin, you’re up.”

_SCENE 5_

By the time they left Wymack’s class, Kevin was in pieces. As promised, Wymack had dug deeper and had assigned _terror_ to Kevin. The remaining foxes had sat back and witnessed as Kevin dutifully started to dig around his brain in search for that particular emotion, then, they had sat back helplessly as they watched their colleague begin to sweat and shake profusely – whatever Kevin had been thinking about surely wasn’t pleasant. Neither Kevin nor Wymack attempted to put a stop to the exercise, thus the foxes had spent thirty full minutes staring helplessly at their gradually crumbling friend. The words he had uttered didn’t make much sense to any of them – _letter, stage_ and, the most confusing out of all, _number two_ – but hearing them had felt like a cruel intrusion nonetheless. By the end of class, everyone was fully fidgeting as Wymack dismissed them with the promise that everyone else would be subjected to the same treatment over the following weeks, Neil included.  
“That was ruthless.” Commented Allison as she fell into stride with Neil and Renee. Kevin was walking a few strides ahead of their group, dark patches of sweat showing on the back of his light gray shirt.  
“I don’t expect anything different from Wymack.” Came Seth’s voice from behind them “I don’t get why he didn’t stop him when he started _shaking_ , what a sicko.”  
Diplomatically, Renee shook her head “He didn’t stop him because Kevin didn’t want to be stopped.”  
“Whatever.” Seth surpassed them, his long legs speeding him forward.  
“He’s got a point though,” Allison was wrapping her long, tanned arms around her torso as they walked “witnessing that was dismaying.”  
“That’s the point of us witnessing it, I think.” Shrugged Neil, when everyone but Renee looked at him questionably, he continued “Why else would Wymack have us watch?”  
“To traumatize us?” Chuckled Matt, but Neil could hear the waver in his voice.  
“We have to get acquainted with each other’s vulnerabilities. If we learn to open ourselves up deep on stage, but then we can’t take our colleagues doing the same…”  
“There would be no point in opening up at all.” Finished Renee with a small smile, right before she swung open the door to Professor Dobson’s own classroom.  
Betsy’s studio was smaller than Wymack’s, it felt homely and warm with its constantly-on fireplace and her portable stove for cooking hot cocoa and kettle boiling warm water for teas. The walls were painted a neutral blush color and the room was scattered with sofas and armchairs. The floor was also covered in pillows: the majority of the room’s surfaces were soft and pillowy. Dainty tables were distributed around the room alike, it was customary for students to grab them and adjust however they wanted them, they were everchanging. As a matter of fact, when they walked into the room, Andrew was already pushing a round brown table away from his spot on a three-seater sofa – in four years, Neil had never seen him take notes.  
The foxes split up once inside the classroom, Neil heading for the sofa just in time to grab the table from Andrew’s grasp, positioning it on his side of the couch before he sat down in the middle – Kevin on one side and Andrew on the other. Renee and Matt flopped down on one of the many pillows sprinkled around the room while Allison and Seth took a loveseat closer to the door.  
Betsy Dobson had already set up seven mugs on a counter and was hurriedly alternating between pouring hot cocoa or warm water accordingly to what her students were asking her.  
“Kevin dear, you look a bit pale, would you like some chamomile tea?” She inquired, her sweet voice soothing and motherly.  
“Depends Bee, can you hide some whiskey in it?” Joked Andrew once it was clear that Kevin wouldn’t give off any signs of life. Betsy’s class was Andrew’s favorite: it was the only one in which he’d talk and partake in (albeit only to cause havoc), outside of rehearsals – sometimes, on really bad days, he would even refuse to partake in rehearsals, in which case the foxes were stuck reciting lines around Andrew’s silences (“ _My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.” “…” “How came these things to pass? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!”_ ).  
“He’ll take the chamomile” interceded Neil, staring at an unfocused Kevin out of the corner of his eye.  
When everyone was settled with their drinks, Betsy sat swiftly on her desk, a warm smile directed to each and every one of the foxes. Differently from Wymack, who showed his fondness by pushing them over their limits, Betsy showed hers with coddling and warm smiles. It was clear in the way she looked at them just how proud she truly was and, although Neil had gotten better at dealing with her undisguised love, sometimes he still felt the need to advert his eyes and dethatch himself from her.  
“Here we are.” She commenced, eyes glinting. “My fourth-years.” Neil adverted his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Next to him, he could feel Kevin start to awaken from his trance – Shakespeare was calling, after all.  
“We’ve made it all this way, you’ve grown so much.” On the floor, Renee was clutching her heart with a fondness that equaled Betsy’s “This year is dedicated to Shakespeare’s tragedies – what an honor has been bestowed upon you!”  
She smiled at her actors one last time, her eyes growing fonder by the minute “You remember what I told you on your first day, four years ago?” She took a sip of her cocoa then her eyes turned purposeful and her voice lowered in a stage-like whisper as she quoted “ _Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great; some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. –_ Regardless of how you got here, Shakespeare would be proud of your greatness.”  
Another sip of her cocoa, then yet another calm smile “So, shall we begin?”

_SCENE 6_

It was a week before anything else interesting happened. They had all crowded in the refectory to eat, moving together like a pack. Ever since their sophomore year, they had constantly huddled in a group. It hadn’t been an explicit choice, but rather a foreseeable occurrence: wherever Renee went, Allison followed, so that meant that Seth was surely close behind, that tied them to Matt, who usually expected Neil to follow and Kevin seemed to be stuck to Neil. Andrew, in turn, had been glued to Kevin ever since they had sealed a pact during their freshman year. Like foxes, being in a group had never been in their nature, yet they had found their own synergy unexpectedly: they had created their own ripple effect.  
They were all sitting at their table in the refectory in silence – specifically, it was the table closest to the windows because Renee enjoyed staring out of the high ceiling windows – when Dan skipped excitedly towards them. After a rather harrowing session at Wymack’s – this time it had been Allison’s turn, who had had to deal with _humiliation_ ( _party, begging, jeans)_ – none of the fourth-year foxes were particularly in the mood to deal with a happy-go-lucky Danielle Wilds, not even her boyfriend. As she finally reached their table, she decided to pointedly ignore the older students’ scowl as she waved an envelope in her hands. Allison was the first to perk up, the eyes that mere seconds before had been unfocused and pensive now glinting with curiosity.  
“What is that?” She inquired; eyes fixated to the open envelope. Dan was grinning, her happiness radiating off of her muscular frame like rays of sunshine. It was contagious, enveloping the foxes with a newfound glee.  
“You’ve got mail!” she said delighted before unceremoniously plopping down on Matt’s lap.  
“ _How now! How now! Do you hear this?_ ” bellowed Matt from behind Dan’s back, he was trying to gaze down onto the mysterious letter, but she was hiding it covertly as she reprimanded him with a harsh but amused “go get your own one.”  
Excitement was now buzzing high, yet no one seemed to desire getting up to cross the refectory to _actually_ collect the coveted letters, so Neil got up wordlessly – obtaining several cheers of approval. Palmetto’s students all had a personal mailbox at the end of the refectory, right next to the hallway doors. In four years, Neil had never seen any of the seven foxes gather anything from said mailboxes, so even being near them felt foreign. It took him a while to track all seven of their names and, when he finally succeeded, he hastily made his way back towards their table.  
“ _Thanks, my good sir_ ” said Renee cheekily as Neil distributed the pack of letters.  
“What are they?” asked Neil impatiently, because, by the time he had finally dished out all of the letters, his colleagues had already started reading.  
“It’s _Macbeth._ ” Grinned Allison.  
Understanding dawned on Neil. It was an established Palmetto tradition to have a few traditional performances take place every year: like the recreation of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ with sidewalk chalk at the end of winter, or the performance of Stravinsky’s _Rite of Spring_ during spring solstice by the dancers; the theater students dealt with a few scenes from _Macbeth_ on Halloween and _Romeo and Juliet_ at the Christmas Banquet. All the performances, be it the artists, or the dancers, or the musicians, or the philosophers, where all shouldered by the fourth-years (with some small exceptions – Dan, for example, had probably been involved due to the odd number of females to men in that particular year).  
As Neil tore open his own envelope, he came across a small card of thick paper that displayed Betsy’s neat writing:

_Please be at the trailhead at a quarter to midnight on Halloween.  
Come prepared for Act I, Scene 3, and Act IV, Scene 1.  
You will be playing **BANQUO**.  
Report to the costume shop at 12:30 p.m. on October 18th for a costume fitting.  
Do not discuss this with your peers. Godspeed._

Neil gulped excitedly at the choice for his casting. It was unusual, Banquo was not the type of character Neil was used to playing. Banquo wasn’t a character for him – Banquo was a character Kevin would’ve played, maybe Matt even. And Neil was a sidekick at best, had _always_ been the sidekick. Gingerly, he wondered who had been casted as _his_ Macbeth. He glanced at his colleagues; they were all staring at each other suspiciously yet excitedly. All, except for Andrew and Seth.  
“So…” trailed Matt on with a mischievous grin “we’re really not supposed to talk about this?”  
“Not a word, Boyd.” Admonished him Kevin, who had played Tybalt alongside the previous year’s seniors “Don’t even think about it.”  
“Do we even get to rehearse?” asked Renee, the question directed directly to him. Kevin’s brows furrowed in confusion at the – seemingly innocent – question.  
“Of course we’re not going to, that’s the challenge.” At that, the entire table broke out into chaos with everyone speaking over each other. In the confusion, no one noticed Seth annoyedly gathering his things from the table until he was already on his feet, a deep scowl twisting his features. He unceremoniously left without a word a few seconds later.  
Everyone frowned up at Allison who, as his “girlfriend”, was the most reliable source. She shrugged confusedly as she offered a “he was fine until a couple moments ago?”.  
“Maybe you should go check up on him.” Advised Renee, always the most tactful of the group. Allison nodded without a word and jogged out of the refectory in her stiletto heels, the sound attracting several stares from other students in the room.  
“Do you think he got upset with the casting?” Asked Dan, still seated on Matt’s lap.  
“Knowing Gordon, that’s very much a possibility.” Answered her boyfriend, with a sigh.  
At the time, they didn’t know – they couldn’t have known, really – but a very deep change had been set into motion. Everything was about to escalate to an agonizing crescendo. 


	2. Rising Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord forgive me for the length of my chapters. I had to split this in two because posting roughly a 25,000 words monstrosity felt a little bit over the top.  
> EDIT: I’m really insecure about my works and if I don’t receive any feedback I end up giving up on stories very easily - I’m actually considering giving up on this so yes... let me know  
> \---  
> Credit for the characters, plot and some of the dialogues go to Nora Sakavic and M. L. Rio (author of If We Were Villains)  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: mention of drug use/abuse, (hinted at/descriptions of) panic attacks, violence, attempted murder (by drowning) and Shakespeare … Y’know, the usual.

**ACT II ( _part 1_ )**

_PROLOGUE_

The uttered “Josten” seems to travel far across the empty forest. If Neil concentrates enough, he can very well picture it skimming across the trees, running freely like he had once done. It’s hard not to let memories and regrets overcome him like an avalanche, but it’s even harder to raise his stare to meet the man in front of him. Staring at those eyes while standing at _his_ lake, while he’s in foxes’ territory, is the hardest things he’s ever done. It took Neil several years of deep thinking to finally shed the anger he coveted for that same man; it had been much easier to just dump all the blame on him. “ _He was just doing his job_.” Had reasoned Renee during one of her many visits, years before. “ _Should’ve minded his own business._ ” Had been his retort.  
Now, standing face to face with the man that had taken him away from his life, from his _family_ , Neil realizes he can only feel numbness. He had spent the better part of his ten-year sentence basking in the memories he so fondly treasured, those being his strongest drive. Pushing him on and on as time slowly tickled by. Until, one day, someone – deep hazel eyes and a bored scowl – had reprimanded him for doing just that: “ _You look like shit._ _Stop clutching to the past, it’s pathetic._ ” he had said, in the middle of his visit. “ _Praising what is lost. Makes the remembrance dear_.” Had quoted Neil from across the table. “ _It_ makes _you miserable_. _Stop it, you look like shit_.” That was the last time Neil saw him.  
“Shall we talk?” Asks the man, arms raised high in a peace offering. Neil scans his frame in search of a gun, a badge, a final something to convince him _not_ to do what he’s about to, but he finds nothing. So, Neil only nods and points to the riverside, they sit on the dry soil in silence.  
When Officer Higgins had showed up during his visitation hours exactly a month before, Neil had been shocked. He had strolled into the small, surveyed room expecting to see Matt, or Dan, or Renee even. Instead he had come face to face with the man that had put him there for good. Quickly, Higgins had explained himself, had argued how Neil’s had been the hardest case of his career, how the pieces of the puzzle had never added up, how he couldn’t live with the doubts and questions anymore. And Neil had listened, teeth gritting and fingers tightening in fists. “ _If you expect me to re-open this case, Higgins, you really don’t know who you’re talking to._ ” He had spat before leaving. A week later, Higgins was still there. And the man argued and argued, said he was leaving his public job for that of a private investigation company (“ _I’m selling out, but it pays much better._ ”) and Neil sat politely without listening, until the older man piqued his interest with a “Do you ever lie in your cell and wonder what could’ve been? Do you ever stop thinking about those days?”. Neil had smiled a bitter smile, all the anger and badly dealt emotions resurfacing to the top, and, with a self-deprecating snarl he said “I can’t stop, _Pig Higgins_.” The old nickname foreign on his tongue “That’s the difference between you and I. For you, it was just another day, another case. For _us_ it was that day and every single day that came after. But you didn’t know _them_ , you didn’t know _him_ , you didn’t know _us._ ” A dark smile had made its way through his mask, Neil could recognize the expression even without seeing himself in the mirror – his father’s smile. “I’m sure it must eat you alive, not knowing what was it with us. Not understanding us. But, _Pig Higgins_ , no one could back then and you surely won’t be able to now. So, leave me the fuck alone.” The third time Higgins had showed up, he kept it simpler than usual. While Neil had been forced to sit on the meeting chair, one hand handcuffed to the armrest by one of the guards (“ _A bit of a behavioral problem, this one._ ”), Higgins had stayed put on his feet. “Why do it?” Neil knew what he was referring to, Higgins’ eyes were open and so very full of questions, they were asking _why take the blame?_ Neil shrugged “I wanted to.” Someone had once called him a martyr and – in the ten years he had spent wallowing in his dingy cell – he had been able to explore that term perfectly. “Aren’t you tired of keeping your secrets?”. Another shrug “The people that matter to me all know what they need to know, go pester someone else.” And that had been Neil’s fatal mistake, because Higgin’s eyes had turned hard and purposeful as he said “So you’d rather I pester _them?_ ”.  
And that was how Neil came to find himself sitting on a lakeside, with the man that, many years before, had put his first pair of shackles on him. He wouldn’t tell him all of the story, Neil knew that, he’d leave out the trivial details and the most precious moments, but he was ready to give that man an insight of the world he had burrowed into for the better part of his lifetime.  
“Where do I begin?” Asks Neil, legs not daring dangle over the water. The lake is back to looking crystal clear again, but Neil fears it’ll swallow him whole if he were to get too close.  
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”  
Neil shrugs the impending chill off. Aloud, he recites: “ _What now ensues, to the judgment of your eye / I give, my cause who best can justify._ ” But in his mind, it’s Pericles talking. As Higgins doesn’t look like the type of person who reads Shakespeare in his free time, he frowns at the apparently random quote. Neil sighs. “Everything I did, I did for my family. You can think what you please, but know that I don’t regret any of it.”  
A beat of silence, a small breeze, a dash of leaves. “I hope you can live with that.” Neil says.  
And then, he begins.

_SCENE 1_

Nicholas “Nicky” Hemmings could only be described in one word: _uncontainable._ He was, for lack of a better word, _bigger than life_ with his (at times dubious) teaching methods and his preposterous personality. Nicky – he wouldn’t accept any other epithet – treated them like younger siblings, he ruffled their feathers for the sole enjoyment of having the foxes bristle and rattle, but, unlike Wymack, he had never attempted to push or break them. Nicky also felt very much like an outsider, with his over-the-top outfits and his black tights. He didn’t fit in with the rest of the teachers (he managed to make Wymack look like a perfectly fitting member of the teachers’ board despite their severe aesthetic and his ragged tank tops), but he also didn’t fit in with the students. He refused, for starters, to quote Shakespeare. Favoring, instead, authors from the decadent and aesthetic movements – Oscar Wilde being his absolute predilect.  
Despite all, Nicky Hemmings was a respectable teacher: he seemed to be sporting infinite patience, even with Seth and Andrew causing constant havoc during his classes, and had taught them several good tricks to use on stage. He looked, felt and spoke like an outsider, yet he was extremely loved by the entire student body: he could sometimes be spotted interpretative dancing in the woods with the ballerinas or arguing over German philosophers with the philosophy and language students. Most of the times, thought, you could catch glimpse of him shadowing his cousin Aaron Minyard, a deep and contemplative art student who seemed to enjoy interacting with people just as much as his twin Andrew did. It was rumored that Nicky had moved from Germany during the twins’ senior year in high school, but no one really knew why. The only things that the students knew about that story came from the sporadic, yet fond, memories about his time in Stuttgart that Nicky would sometimes offer. Apparently, as soon as he had landed on German ground, he had joined a performative company that tackled plays in a very immersive way; there, he had fallen in love with a German playwright named Erik. The foxes didn’t know much more besides worrying anecdotes about his performative days.  
Nicky’s classroom, with his wall-wide mirror and a barre mounted to the wall, resembled more a ballet room; to the point that – throughout the years – the foxes had found more than a couple of shy ballerinas training in it: “ _Nicky gave us the keys, here it’s… quieter._ ”  
Neil had never been a fan of the mirror that took up the better part of the wall, Wymack had something similar in his studio, sure, but with the exercises he had them do Neil barely had time to focus on his reflection. During Nicky’s classes, though, it was a whole other story: in their first year he had had the then-thirty students lined right in front of it and had left them to stare in their own reflection’s eyes for forty minutes – until Alvarez had started crying uncontrollably. Nicky had, ever since, banned the exercise.  
Nicky’s classes were usually held in the afternoon, right after lunch. The foxes were still buzzing with excitement due to Macbeth’s casting when their instructor strode in, a slight skid in his step. Nicky assessed the room and pursed his lips: “Seth?” He asked, brown eyes wide with confusion as he took in the boy’s absence.  
“Nursing a boo-boo.” Teased Andrew from the other side of the room. Ever since the beginning of the semester he had pointedly stood on the sidelines even more than he already did during Nicky’s classes – fourth year was _combat fighting_ and, when Neil had inquired one night, Andrew had eloquently retorted that he “ _didn’t need to practice any of that shit_ ”. Nicky seemed to readily accept Andrew’s refusal to join them – whether it was out of resignation or out of relief for not having to practice hand-to-hand combat with a _sober_ Andrew, Neil didn’t know.  
Allison rolled her eyes annoyedly “He has a migraine.” But even she herself didn’t seem too convinced by that.  
“Right,” hesitated Nicky, eyes flicking to the six remaining foxes “so… last week we tackled slaps and backhands in theory. Now we’ll deal with the practice.”  
Matt, groaning: “Oh man, I really wanted to slap Seth.”  
Kevin, shaking his head: “You wouldn’t have _slapped_ him anyway, we’re in a _acting_ class, did you _forget_?”  
Matt: “Now I want to slap _you._ ”  
As he said so, Matt unwillingly caught Andrew’s hooded stare. Everyone knew about the promise he had made to Kevin in freshman year: Andrew would protect Kevin from any danger and, although Matt hardly meant danger, Andrew would also never say no to a real-life scuffle.  
“Okay!” chimed in Nicky, a little too excitedly; he nervously eyed Andrew out the corner of his eyes as he said “Let’s begin, shall we?”  
Andrew raised himself from the chair he had been slouching on mere seconds before and joined the group. Nicky started sweating as his nervous smile grew bigger “You’re joining us?” he asked, eyes worriedly pointed to Matt, although the question had been posed to his cousin. When Andrew simply nodded, Nicky hurriedly exclaimed: “I’ll make the pairs! Neil, you take Kevin. Allison, you take Matt. Renee, you’ll deal with Andrew.”  
When everyone moved to stand next to their assigned partner without any complaints, Nicky’s shoulders relaxed and he began illustrating their task: “Last time we unraveled how fake-slaps take place, remember? Now we’ll try backhands, they’re a little different: you angle your hand in this direction” a second of silence as Nicky’s hand went _back and forth and back and forth_ “like this. Be careful, you never want to cross the receiver’s trajectory, you could very much take somebody’s face off.” His gaze flickered to Andrew for a millisecond. “Whoever is on the receiving end should be very much alert: you need quick reflexes to move out of the way, but you also have to make it look like you just got hit.” To demonstrate, he feigned hurt and confusion as he said so.  
“Why is this move so powerful?” He asked when no one had anything to object.  
“It’s intimate” Renee’s voice was honied and calm, but her gaze was pensive “if you’re standing so close to the other person, it means they let you in their personal space… and you betray that with a slap. It’s especially jarring precisely _because_ it’s intimate.”  
“Perfect.” Praised Nicky “Now, I want you all to look at your partner and channel that intimacy. Don’t say anything out loud, but think about what they would have to do to make you hit them, if you can’t come up with anything then picture someone who would deserve it. An ex, a teacher, a–” a stutter, Nicky hesitates ad he says “a parent. Whoever you’d like. Don’t move a muscle until you feel that impulse. Receivers, I want you to think about possible reasons as to why you’d get slapped; think about what you could do to deserve it and when it happens, let it hit you wholly.”  
The three couples stood to face each other as Nicky stood back “Kevin, Allison, Renee: you’re up first. Receivers, please move out of the way in time, I really don’t want to get another admonition for hurting my students. Besides, Abby would kill me.”  
On Nicky’s mark, the students all turned to their partner. Silence engulfed them all, Neil watched as Kevin’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He stared at his friend as he scanned Neil from head to toe with a scrutinizing gaze. As he watched Kevin assess him, Neil saw his stare grow harder and more purposeful as the minutes ticked on, but there still was something lacking in Kevin’s body language: whatever he was thinking about was bad enough to turn his shoulders stiff and his eyes to slots, but it wasn’t enough to grant Neil a slap. Then, like a thundering force from above, the sound of a hit resounded in the room. “Good job, Allison!” Boomed Nicky excitedly, Neil turned around to give a small smile towards the succeeding pair and he waited until the room turned quiet before going back to stare at Kevin.  
When his attention turned to his colleague, though, Kevin’s stare had morphed into something unreadable. His eyes were looking right at him, but Neil could sense that it wasn’t him that Kevin was seeing: his glare was unfocused enough to give that off perfectly; Kevin was picturing someone else and, whoever it was, he wanted to hurt that someone badly. Neil could see it in the way the taller man was clenching his jaw, he could see it from the way his eyebrows were furrowing; it was harrowing, seeing his ever-collected classmate fuming at the seams. It was also worrying, because Kevin wasn’t violent, he wasn’t usually aggressive, and Neil had never seen him in that state. Somehow, he looked even more vulnerable, as he let himself be consumed by what looked like the picture-perfect image of hatred. When the slap came, Neil wasn’t ready. Completely consumed by the questions roaming his mind, he didn’t see the hand coming his way at full force. By the time he realized what had happened, he was on the floor – head spinning and cheek burning with seething, smoldering pain. Hands firmly grabbed him upright and Neil immediately recognized Matt’s cologne. A flurry of “ _are you okay?_ ” “ _Neil?_ ” “ _Neil, are you okay?_ ” took over his mind, preventing him from thinking clearly.  
He blinked up at Matt’s concerned face as his friend hastily explained that Kevin’s watch had come in contact with Neil’s cheekbone, like a makeshift brass knuckle. And, sure enough, when Neil raised his hand to his cheek, blood was on his fingertips. Dazed from the hit, but otherwise unfazed by the pain and the blood, Neil got to his feet quickly. Nicky was panicking quietly next to him as he inquired “Are you okay? Neil? Oh god, are you okay? Does it hurt?”  
Neil just shrugged and murmured a “I’m fine” that gained him a whirlwind of groans from all of his classmates.  
“You need to go see Abby.” Prompted Nicky and, although Neil felt the need to protest and refuse, he was very much aware of the fact that – although it was easy to forget at times – Nicky was his professor and he needed to at least attempt to follow his requests.  
“I’ll go with you.” Offered Renee, reassuringly positioning her hand on Neil’s shoulders “Nicky, can I?”  
“There’s no need.” Protested Neil “I’m fine, no need to miss the rest of class because of this. I’ll go on my own.” Renee didn’t insist. When Nicky nodded in understanding, he left. Sparing only a quick glance to the shell-shocked Kevin that stood a few inches away from him.  
He was wobbling down the corridor, vision still slightly blurry, when calm footsteps approached him. He chose not to turn around and reprimand the person who had decided to follow him – he guessed it was a sulking Kevin – so he kept walking forward. He reached the end of the hallway and pitifully began his descent of the elaborate marble staircase that connected the first floor to the parlor, where the refectory and several offices were situated. It was only when he miserably got to the last step – with a lot of effort and a rapidly spinning head – that the person shadowing him finally spoke.  
“You really got yourself knocked out by _Kevin Day_.” Andrew’s voice had his normal monotone laced in it, but Neil swore he could hear a glint of amusement. “Takes talent.”  
Andrew fell into stride with him as Neil scowled. As his face twisted, he could feel a small trickle of blood slide over his cheek. He hastily wiped it away.  
“You know,” Andrew fired once more “you’d think that someone with your attitude would at least know how to dodge.”  
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.” Neil grit through his teeth “What are you doing here anyway?”  
Andrew shrugged, hands in his pockets “Got bored.” The shorter man was feigning heedlessness, but even in his daze Neil could spot him surveying his deep cut. Neil chose to ignore it as they finally reached Abby’s office.  
The nurse’s room wasn’t as aseptic as one would think, the warm beiges of its painted walls making it feel more like a homely living room rather than a doctor’s office. Throughout the years, Neil had visited Abby’s office at least thrice a semester, so the middle-aged woman wasn’t at all surprised when she took in his appearance.  
She shook her head as she fetched her first aid kit, “Who did you pick a fight with this time, Neil?” she put fresh new gloves on, then motioned him to sit on the examining table.  
When neither him nor Andrew replied, she sighed “Was it Jack again? Or that third year from the latin-only program?”  
“That scrawny guy really trashed you” recalled Andrew as Abby got to work on Neil’s gash.  
“It was just an accident this time” he mumbled, his cheek stinging horribly as Abby worked quickly, cleaning the wound “we were trying fake combat techniques and Kevin accidentally hit me. It was my fault.”  
Abby staggered at the mention of Kevin hurting him.  
“You should’ve seen it, Abby. Idiot over here _literally_ leaned into the slap.” Neil decided to tune out the teasing for good.

_SCENE 2_

As the days went on, the foxes slowly settled in a somewhat familiar tradition: it wasn’t perfectly aligned to that of the previous years – it was normal given the fact that they now lived in a different house, with much less people than they had gotten used to having around – but it still retained some of the aspects that had accompanied them along the years. Throughout their time at Palmetto, the foxes had developed a fondness for huddling in the same rooms to study their scripts: so that they could bask in the comfort of each other’s presences, but maintain their own individuality and need to be on their own. As freshmen, they had chosen the basement of their housing facility and had, in turn, banned all other departments from walking in at evening time. The following two years, the ones spent at the Hall, had presented them the chance of exploiting (re: breaking into) Betsy’s classroom – to get comfy on the mounds of pillows and blankets and, if you were Andrew, make use of the hot cocoa mix stored away in a cupboard. It had taken Betsy only a couple of weeks to figure out why her supplies started to suddenly run out way quicker than usual, thankfully she had never put a stop to their nightly visits. As seniors, with their own house, it was a completely different story. During the course of their first week they had rotated different locations: Neil and Matt’s room (pros: comfy, with a new couch that Matt’s mother bought him, cons: too small, the smell), the kitchen (pros: none, cons: everything), the small living room no one liked (pros: spacious and breathable, cons: the looming portraits of the previous house owners that seemed to follow their each and every move). Eventually, they had settled down in the small library on the first floor: it was cozy and warm, and the books all around them made them feel at home. On a particular night, the girls had scavenged every possible pillow and blanket hidden inside the house and had placed them on the library’s floor to honor Betsy’s legacy. Pros: perfect for concentrating, comfortable and warm, spacious enough. Cons: Andrew’s distaste for libraries seemed to prevent him from even setting foot in there. The other foxes – except for Renee – didn’t seem to mind, but it bothered Neil to admit that he did, in fact, mind. For some reason, he missed having the blond’s stare on his back and he also missed the scent of cigarette smoke that would waft around every single room he set foot in. Every room, except for the library.  
It was after a particularly taxing day in early October that Neil broke their tradition: that day, at Wymack’s, Andrew had been called to The Chair, to perform the emotions exercise for the first time and had been given _guilt_. Everyone had waited in silence for an astounding 40 minutes until, finally, Andrew just shrugged and got back up without having uttered a single word. And, just like a twig snapping in two, Seth had lost his temper, yelling vicious and angry words right at the blond’s unimpressed face. Andrew’s apathy had riled Seth up even more, sending him right over the edge as he fumed and crackled under the shaken and appalled gazes of his colleagues. Then, in the blink of an eye, Andrew had a knife in his hands. And all hell had broken loose. Seth had screamed insults even louder, taunting Andrew to “ _just do it, psycho, let’s see if you can hurt me_ ”, as the girls desperately began to pull at him to get him to back off. Matt, instead, had attempted to step between the two only to be pushed away by Wymack, taking his place. “ _You just wasted our time! You’re a waste of space!_ ” echoed in the room. Everything was in motion, the bedlam around them growing stifling, Neil and Kevin being the only two to remain unmoved, unwavering: waiting for Andrew to do something first. Whether Andrew wanted to attack or not, Neil didn’t know; except that, deep down, Neil was already preparing himself for the familiar sight of blood, for the familiar sight of a blade puncturing and breaking skin. Eventually, Seth had grown tired, voice coming out wheezy and breaths chopped, face bright red from anger and exertion. Renee had grabbed his shoulders and had walked him out of the room. Half of the foxes had ended up skipping Betsy’s class next period. Leaving only Kevin, Neil and Andrew to savor warm tea and analyze in deep detail their own parts. After that – in an unspoken agreement with the other foxes that they’d attempt to keep the two parties apart for as long as they could manage – they had gone to lunch at Sweetie’s, instead of heading to the refectory. By evening time, Neil was dreading heading up to the library: he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of Seth and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the idle chit chat he knew the girls and Matt would attempt in order to break the ice. To make matters worse, after the _wristwatch incident –_ that had left Neil a pretty gnarly bruise on his left cheek – things had turned awkward between him and Kevin, he had apologized but they refused to talk about it, making their relationship feel like a bone mended crookedly. Neil didn’t want to experience that same feeling with the remaining foxes as well. He would happily avoid everyone for as long as he could.  
“Coming?” asked Kevin, one hand clutching his copy of _Caesar_ for dear life. It was their last week of peace before evening rehearsals inaugurated and Neil knew how much Kevin strived for perfection.  
“I’ll…” Neil began, assessing his possibilities “be up in a bit, go without me.” By the time Kevin set foot on the first step of the staircase, Neil had already taken for the front door. The air was still warm, but it had lost its usual stuffiness, making walking outside pleasant. He circled the house towards the deepening forest, his legs automatically taking him where he needed to be.  
The lake was already luring him in, its siren song haunting and unwavering. The calm, unmoved water waiting for him, ready and willing to engulf him and wash away his memories and worries. Neil briefly wondered what it would feel like, to have the liquid seal right over his head, like a wicked curtain call, blocking all sound and vision. Maybe the lake would be able to erase the haunting faces he saw every night, maybe it would cleanse his mind from the names that sometimes would still reappear like ghosts in the shadows. Or maybe, the waters and still silence of the lake would heighten those memories, create a perfect stage on which his nightmares could finally act upon freely. Maybe not even the waters would be able to wash away the years of fear, the scars and the horrors. Neil sighed, while lost in his thoughts, he had unconsciously walked right to the edge – eyes staring right through his reflection. He felt tired, more so than he had felt in years. With the stress coming from the plays and the growing hostilities forming in what he considered his family, he could already perceive metaphorical waters grasp at his neck, swarming around it conspiratorially – ready to drown him completely. No matter how much he tried, he could only see the still waters at his feet, so he stood there, frozen, for god knows how long until, eventually, his eyes began focusing slowly on his own reflection, coaxing him back to reality. First, he saw the unruly auburn hair, then took notice of a pair of ice blue eyes, a scarred cheekbone, chapped lips; he forced himself to keep going, until he felt like he finally had a solid hold back on reality.  
By the time Neil got back to the house, the night had engulfed the entire Palmetto in pitch darkness, save for the soft glow of the moon. Neil moved tentatively through the passage he was starting to become familiar with, circling the back of the house to get to the front door when a brief flicker of light caught his attention. He startled to a halt, eyes blinking twice in confusion as he raised his head to the spot that had hosted the appearance. The house’s lights were all turned off, save for the one coming from the library’s window. Yet, Neil could’ve sworn that the little flicker had appeared from somewhere on the roof. Knowing that, by then, it would’ve been far too late to join the others in the library, Neil decided to indulge in his apprehensions for once. He wanted to check it out for himself.  
Getting on the roof, though, was easier said than done, given the lack of doors or staircases that gave access to it. He figured he’d have to climb out of some window, so first he assessed the situation from his and Matt’s, but no foothold stood out to him. Mentally apologizing for the intrusion, he attempted the same from the window in the girls’ room – nothing. Neil refused to check Seth’s room, afraid of what he could find in it and not wanting to deal with any of the aftermaths. So, that only left Kevin and Andrew’s room, it was situated on a different floor than all of the other rooms, in what had once been an attic. He had seen it only once and the visit had been brief enough for Kevin to grab a playbill he wanted to show around, before Andrew had slammed the door in their faces. Tentatively, Neil knocked on the door – expecting Andrew to kindly tell him to go to hell – but received no answer. He tried thrice more before daring to open the door himself. He instantly noticed the opened window, its screen dismantled and on the floor. Neil swallowed and strode to it, pushing his head out of the framework to spot several leverage points: the attic room was situated at a higher level than the rest of the second floor, giving the window access to the lower first-floor roof. Perched onto it, a few feet away, was Andrew – his feet dangling down and a cigarette between his fingers. He lazily turned to look at Neil and raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.  
“You’re in my room.” He didn’t sound angry, but he didn’t sound approving either. Neil’s heart beat a little faster as he climbed out onto the roof with a small thump, then he said: “Not anymore.”  
The silence between them stretched for a while as Neil took his time to circle the extending uneven surface like a guard dog – careful not to look down as he inspected the rooftop tiles. From up there, Neil could see a sliver of the lake, a small bit of water that wasn’t hidden by the over imposing trees. On the other side of the roof, Neil could spot the familiar trail that the foxes took every day to get to class – that was the direction in which Andrew had chosen to sit, eyes fixated to a spot on the gravel pathway. Experimentally, Neil took a couple unsure steps towards him, careful not to bother him too much; then, he sat cross legged at a reasonable distance – not far enough that he couldn’t see Andrew’s face in the darkness, but not close enough that Andrew could easily reach out and push him. As if reading his mind, Andrew sighed and grumbled “Give me one good reason to not push you off the side.”  
“I’d drag you with me. It’s a long way down.” Dared Neil, his eyes focused on Andrew’s feet dangerously dangling off the side of the roof. The blond’s eyes turned to stare at a spot on the horizon, he didn’t even spare him a glance when he said “I hate you.”  
Neil shrugged, he already knew that. Four years of forced cohabitation would have been enough to make it abundantly clear, but Andrew’s fond love for threats and physical aggression had done a good job at reminding Neil of his deep dislike ever since freshman year. Admittedly, the physical aggressions and threats had lowered to a minimum as the years passed, but Neil had never been foolish enough to think his distaste had disappeared with them – Andrew had simply gotten bored with him when he had figured out that he only posed a minimum threat to the people he was protecting. Nicky, instead, had a completely different theory – one that he had presented him after a dinner at their house in Columbia, while the two were cleaning the dishes – “ _I think you’re his favorite,_ ” He had said, passing Neil a plate for him to towel dry “ _you’re the only one he listens to.”  
_As if to mock Neil’s memory, Andrew pushed on “Ninety percent of the time, the very sight of you makes me want to commit murder.” And suddenly, Neil was very much aware of the two-story drop awaiting him at just an arm’s reach of distance.  
Yet, the prospect of death wasn’t enough to deter him from quoting: “ _How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so?_ ” It was one of Cassius’s lines from Caesar, Andrew’s character. If Andrew picked up on the irony of it, he didn’t comment; instead he said “Ninety-one percent.” And Neil knew better not to push his luck further.  
For the night, at least.  
Neil expected Andrew to send him away at any given moment, yet that moment never came and the two sat enjoying the night breeze and their own thoughts for a while. But Neil had too many questions he was desperately attempting to quash down and eventually one of the many slipped out.  
“Why didn’t you attack Seth today?” Andrew blinked at him a couple of times like Neil would disappear at any moment’s notice if only he’d believe in it enough. He eventually sighed and took a drag of his new cigarette.  
“Why should I have.”  
It was Neil’s time to blink in confusion “I’ve seen you react for far less when it comes to Kevin.” Admittedly, in four years, Neil had never seen anyone try and pick up a fight with Andrew directly – Kevin was usually the one people were willing to fight: he was constantly the center of animosity with his clear arrogance and his unabashedly rude comments.  
Andrew flicked his cigarette off the roof and waved his hand in a manner that meant _exactly_.  
Having pushed his luck enough for one night, Neil knew he should have just gotten up and left, but the questions flooding in his mind were pestering him still, pushing and prodding at his mind and lips – begging to be let out – and so, Neil complied: “What do you think of Seth’s sudden anger?” that gained Andrew’s attention back, his eyes flicking towards him for a couple of seconds.  
“What about it.”  
“Do you… think he’s _using_ again?” Seth had had drug problems all throughout the first two years “Or do you think he’s just losing it? Matt says the former, but I-” A shrug of shoulders “He’s never been such a violent ass.”  
“Seems like it’s becoming commonplace.” was Andrew’s only retort, he was still looking at Neil, but his eyes were focused on his bruising cheek, the cut still fairly fresh.  
Neil was about to open his mouth to retort when Andrew pointed his cigarette towards him in accusation. “Hush now, I come here to get away from you pests. Go bother everyone else.” But, in contradiction to what he had just said, he was the one that got up and left.  
When Neil eventually snuck back into the room, neither Kevin nor Andrew were inside. He headed to his own room, pointedly ignored the noises coming from the library and went straight to bed.

_SCENE 3 *****_

And just like that, rehearsals began. And with them came a weariness deep enough that endowed the foxes the ability to forget all of their previous acrimonies, if only for a short while. Rehearsals meant reciting lines deep into the nights until throats ran dry and legs grew weary. It meant Renee’s hot lemon teas with honey and ginger. It meant Matt’s encouraging smiles as they prepped the stage for the billionth time. It also meant Wymack scraping them for emotions and pathos until they were drained and bleeding on that very stage. It meant Betsy pushing and prodding at their nerve endings until they were arguing passionately with her and with each other. They lived, breathed, and felt Shakespeare so deeply that Neil, on especially weary nights, swore he could feel him right there with them: assessing, watching, maybe even laughing mockingly. It was stressful, having to be completely fixated on the stage; yet, every time his shoes touched the worn-out floorboards, he felt recharged at the same time. Rehearsals were like a final denouement in their days, already filled to the brim with Shakespeare: in the morning they had classes – where they would talk, train and move for Caesar – then lunch, then some more classes, sometimes costume fittings or deep studies of the lights and music they’d be working with.  
By the second week of rehearsals, fights developed more easily over scripts, over forgotten lines or wayward gazes (“ _Goddammit Neil can you please concentrate? I want to go home”)_. Coffees flowed in their veins alongside their blood and, in the weekends, it would get replaced with fancy liquors provided by Wymack himself. Tension reappeared and settled thick and heavy in a way it hadn’t been since freshman year. Back then, thirty sublimely broken kids had been locked together and had attempted to abide to a simple request “ _make art, and make it worthwhile_ ” – some had cracked under the pressure, some had given up and some had come out of it victorious. Four years later, what they had expected to deflate had instead built in size. Not only the pressure was still on, but it had also become a monster, a night terror. Pressure and expectation were now nagging at their fingertips as they incessantly wrote notes on their scripts, they looked them straight in the eyes every morning in the mirror, at every costume fitting, before their bedtime. Pressure took the form of a rebellious song in their ears, making them ring with each “ _let’s go over this scene once more_ ”, Expectation was the visual reminder of the newly hung posters for their play, their faces plastered across campus and neighboring cities, Expectation was the burgundy velvet chairs lined in front of the stage, empty for the time being, but not any less surveying and assessing.

Everything began to crumble during Betsy’s class. The way Neil would see it – years later, as he dwelled over and over it in his afflictive cell – it was right in that moment that the perfect yet precarious equilibrium they had built so finely over the years, an equilibrium that had been cracked ever since the beginning of the semester, began to crumble. Neil and the others hadn’t been able to spot it back then, hadn’t been able to see it, but small little flakes had started to come off. It was only a matter of time (a month, to be exact) before it would disintegrate right over their heads. Years later Neil wondered what would have happened had they realized it earlier: would they have been able to stitch it back together? Sewing the crumbled pieces back like patchwork? Or would it have exploded regardless?  
Everything began to crumble _definitively_ during Betsy’s class. It was a particularly harrowing lecture: she was trying to fish a deeper comprehension of tragedies out of them. What initiated as a pacific discussion of tragic structures quickly established itself as a very opinionated and aggressive argument.  
“I’m just saying that the tragic structure of Macbeth makes Caesar look like a low budget telenovela.” Grumbled Matt from his spot on the floor. The class felt like a bedlam, actors talking over each other left and right.  
“Are you fucking comparing Caesar to a telenovela?” roared Seth, almost protectively.  
“That’s not his point, Seth.” Reasoned Renee, her warm eyes glinting purposefully “He’s saying that the two tragedies should not be put in the same category.”  
“Why not,” Interjected Allison, her eyebrows knitting together as she stared at her notes “the character archetypes in one tragedy all mimic the others. Take Lady M and Brutus and Cassius, they’re all characters that murder and assassinate unmorally to achieve a goal – setting themselves up for disaster.”  
“But–” this time it was Neil’s turn to interject, he shot a tentative glance to Andrew before saying “we could argue that Cassius and Brutus assassinate to for the greater good, to _protect_ Rome. They have a purpose and a motive that could be considered moral. They’re–” another furtive glance at the blond next to him “almost fulfilling a promise?”  
“So you’re implying they’re the heroes?” Allison again, her eyes slightly wider than usual. She didn’t look angry, just pensive. Like she was reconsidering the entire play.  
Kevin: “Wait, you _thought_ Caesar was the tragic hero?”  
Seth: “Who else?”  
Andrew: “Oh my, oh my. Don’t say it like that Seth, Kevin might pop a vein.”  
Kevin: “It’s _obviously_ Brutus. Matt, what does your character say in Five-Five:”  
Matt, after a brief pause: “ _This was the noblest Roman of them all;_ and then it goes on to talk about how all the other conspirators did what they did out of envy, but he joined them in _a general honest thought / And common good to all._ ”  
Seth was now seething, much to Andrew’s enjoyment. He was watching the back-and-forth with his typically bored expression, but he was _watching_ – eyes following the arguers like you would a tennis match. So was Betsy. “Brutus can’t be the tragic hero, he has like- infinite tragic flaws.”  
“Such as…” prompted Kevin, now tragically offended.  
“Seth is just saying that while Caesar has _one_ tragic flaw – ambition, just like Macbeth – Brutus has multiple, which makes it impossible to isolate the _one_ that makes everything go askew” Allison was apparently back on Seth’s side of the argument, eyes bright and fierce as she defended a more traditional interpretation of the piece. But it was obvious that her classmates’ arguments had lit up some doubt in her.  
“Couldn’t you argue that Brutus’s tragic flaw is his love for Rome?” Neil interceded yet again.  
“What are you, stupid?” Shot back Seth, evidently at a loss.  
“Hey, we don’t call our colleagues names.” Chided finally Betsy, sensing the bitter air that had begun to form in the room. “I encourage you to blow off steam in these discussions because they’re supposed to be strictly academical, not to insult each other.”  
“I don’t think Seth even understands what academical means, he’s in it for the vanity of it.” Kevin bit back, refusing to look at him “He can’t even accept that his character might not be the hero.”  
“Rich coming from you, Day.”  
“Enough.” Scolded Betsy, she wore a disappointed look that didn’t bond well with her soft features “Take five minutes to recollect yourselves. Go take a walk if you need, but when you come back, I need you to leave all hostilities out of that door.”  
Seth was the first to get up and leave, the door slamming harshly behind him. Once the five minutes were up, though, he didn’t come back.

_Scene 4_

On October 18th they all secretly snuck to the art department sector one by one to get their fittings done. Neil passed a very amused Renee as she walked into the art-wing wearing a poorly concealed devious grin. The closer Halloween felt, the more excitement grew between the foxes. Even Kevin, who always wore a more serious expression seemed giddy at the prospect of the performance. As a last sprint towards it, during the course of the week preceding their Macbeth mise-en-scène, everyone pointedly set aside their Julius Caesar scripts almost symmetrically. They began hiding in different parts of the house to rehearse in peace; for the first time in four years the foxes were spending more time by themselves rather than with their own groups – whether it was only for rehearsing purposes or due to the growing tensions that had developed, Neil didn’t know.  
On Halloween afternoon, they barely passed by each other in the Foxhole: Kevin had claimed the library as his own, going as far as to locking the doors behind him. Allison had locked herself in the downstairs bathroom – the one with the fancy bathtub – and you could hear her muffled voice act as a hairdryer ran on. Matt and Seth had equally holed themselves up in their respective rooms. Neil had spotted Renee by the garden, tending to the flowers the past seniors had lovingly planted, while mouthing her lines. Not having anywhere else to go, Neil decided to test his luck and climbed the stairs to the attic. Andrew answered to the door only after a couple insistent knocks. He was dressed in sweats and a black tank top, one hand was gripping the door handle, while the other held a pill bottle, he still wore his normally bored expression. “Can I… use the roof?” Questioned Neil, now very aware of how stupid it sounded. Andrew didn’t bat an eye as he shrugged “It’s a free country.”  
Neil blinked, taken aback “You’re saying yes?” but Andrew was already going back to his bed, apparently too bored for that specific conversation. Once Neil was already climbing up the window though, Andrew’s voice followed him as he mumbled “You’ve got one hour up there, no more than that. Unless you want to stay there all night.” Not wanting to risk being locked up onto the roof all night, Neil did exactly as he was told.

Neil showed up to the designated spot at exactly a quarter to midnight, with adrenaline pumping in his ears and hands shaky from the excitement of the performance and the unknown alike. From his hiding place behind the trees he could spot the small lights – candles, most likely – that circled what probably was meant to be their makeshift stage by the riverside. Judging from the buzzing of the crowd Neil figured that a good portion of the pupils of Palmetto had braved the small forest that separated the lake from their housings and shown up. He took a few jumps to relieve some of the pressure as someone walked right behind him, he didn’t stop jumping in place until he heard a mocking “Junkie” at his shoulders.  
Even in the near total darkness, Neil could see how this Andrew looked nothing alike from the image he was mostly accustomed to. The historically accurate costumes made his figure look softer and almost filmy – a stark contrast to the dark form fitting clothes he usually wore, that made his every shape and muscle pop. Yet, what particularly made this version of Andrew feel dissimilar was the wicked smile that twisted his features. Throughout the years, Neil had seen that specific version of Andrew only a couple dozen times and every single one the drug-induced smile, so foreign on his serious and apathetic face, had taken his breath away.  
“Ah, I hoped you’d be my Banquo.” He chirped with a wide grin, he was standing only a few inches away from Neil “Alas, I get to murder your annoying ass.”  
Realization hit as Neil finally took in Andrew’s appearance and words: he had been casted as _Macbeth_ himself, despite Neil’s assumption that either Seth or Kevin had sacked the role of _Macbeth_ ; no wonder Seth had been so upset. He stared wordlessly for a couple of seconds before finding the will to retort, but when he finally opened his mouth to say something, several appalled gasps spread from the beach. Andrew’s smile grew even larger as he pointed to Neil’s opened mouth and said “Too late! It’s show time!”  
They crawled closer through the trees, just in time to see three white-clad figures emerge from the shallow waters of the lake. Even with their faces obscured by the feeble lights and shadows, Neil could’ve recognized them everywhere: Allison, Renee and Dan were marching fiercely towards the circle of light on the riverside.  
“ _When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain?_ ” Asked Allison’s stark voice, she sounded so menacing that even the rustle of the tree leaves quieted for her.  
“ _When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won._ ” Came Renee’s reply, she sounded and looked completely transformed: her body language made her look vicious and cunning, the tender and pious girl long forgotten.  
“ _That will be ere the set of sun_ ” Dan continued and, although not being part of the senior foxes, she somehow fit and completed them like the universe had had different plans for her. Dan acted like she belonged alongside them. She had been a constant in their plays ever since the year before, when she had joined the then-third-years in their rendition of several comedies. Acting with Dan felt like acting with a long-lost sibling and seeing her alongside the girls was like seeing a former missing link finally pop back into place. It was easy to stand back and get lost in their performance as they strutted on the makeshift stage and sold their audience a persuading narrative. In fact, he was so busy entrusting them with his unwavering attention that he didn’t notice Andrew’s strong hand gripping the back of his neck until his nimble fingers were actively squeezing his muscles, sending a jolt of pain through his entire body.  
“We gotta go, Cinderella.” Andrew’s body brushed up to his as he steadily walked through the trees and approached the stage from its right. Neil feverishly followed in his steps; eyes glued to his back as it flexed with each step. He watched from the sidelines as Andrew took his time to march towards the stage, he kept by the edge of it and waited to speak, his presence altering the mood completely. If people had been captivated by the girls, now they were completely entranced. And Neil was one of them.  
“ _So foul and fair a day I have not seen._ ” Andrew’s eyes instinctively turned in search for Neil, who was still hidden from the audience’s sight.  
“ _How far is ’t called to Forres?_ ” Finally said Neil, reaching Andrew’s side. He stopped in his tracks and turned to the three witches at the far right of the stage, drenched and otherworldly in their white shifts. “ _What are these / So withered and so wild in their attire, / That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' Earth, / And yet are on ’t?_ ” Just like that, Neil let himself be carried through the monologue, words slipping out of him like his own private thoughts. Andrew stayed right beside him, listening and experiencing the moment fully.  
They shot sentences back and forth with the witches as they explained and unraveled the story, voices enthralling and full of pathos.  
Allison: “ _All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, thane of Glamis!_ ”  
Renee: “ _All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!_ ”  
Dan: “ _All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!_ ”  
Finally, it was Neil’s moment to turn his attention back to Andrew, whose face was now twisted with shock and fear (two emotions that Neil had never seen painted on his face). “ _Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear / Things that do sound so fair_?” Neil had seen enough reenactment to know that most actors, lost in their bafflement and worry, enjoyed grabbing their Macbeth’s shoulder in dismay. But Neil, all too aware of Andrew’s boundaries, clutched Andrew’s sleeve instead, the movement just as distressed. Andrew looked sideways at him but kept quiet. Neil’s Banquo then let his sleeve go, in favor of walking towards the witches. His mouth carrying him over the familiar monologue with each step taken, begging the witches to deliver a prophecy for his own sake – his eyes alight with yearning curiosity.  
The girls circled him in an instant, their voices crying out an echo of “Hail!” Allison prodded and pulled at his hair, Dan drummed her long fingers on his arm and Renee, always the most judicious, settled for plucking modestly at his clothes. The girls fawned over him as they delivered their prophecies with avid intent.  
“ _Lesser than Macbeth and greater._ ” Allison’s nails digging in his curls.  
“ _Not so happy, yet much happier._ ” Renee’s harsh pull at his pants.  
“ _Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none._ ” Dan’s fingers snaking over his chest. “ _So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!”_  
Then it was over and the girls were retreating in perfect synch, their voices merging into one as they walked backwards towards the lake where a floating canoe would become their hiding place “ _Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!_ ” When Neil turned back to Andrew his eyes had already been boring a hole through him, serious and intense. He didn’t look away as he dived into his own monologue.  
The scene progressed quickly, Macbeth and Banquo’s fast back and forth got interrupted by an ecstatic Matt who, apparently, portrayed both Ross and Banquo, whose lines and monologues brought the whole scene to a close. Matt and Neil finally exited the stage in a quick flurry of steps, retreating to the shadows skillfully. A small shed awaited them just a few minutes away: there they could retreat in peace without losing track of the show.  
“That was a mouthful.” Muttered Matt as soon as they were out of earshot. His eyes were lit with adrenaline but his voice sounded rightly hoarse, after reciting lines for two characters. On stage, Macbeth was preparing to give what looked like the famous monologue in Act 2.  
“ _Is this a dagger which I see before me, / The handle toward my hand? / Come, let me clutch thee_.” Andrew’s hand was outstretched towards an invisible, fever-induced image of a dagger.  
“Are you done or do you still have some scenes?” Asked Neil halfheartedly, eyes glued to what was happening on the stage. Andrew was having a conversation with the invisible dagger of his mind.  
“ _Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible / To feeling as to sight?_ ”  
“Oh no, I’m done for the night, those lines were a nightmare to get down.” Matt flicked him a satisfied smile, then clapped him on the shoulder “Good luck buddy.” Right in that moment a general gasp rose from their audience and Neil turned around to see that Andrew was now clutching a knife – one that he had probably just unsheathed from his armbands, but the pupils couldn’t know that – and was comparing his real, functional knife to the one created by the fiction of his mind: “ _I see thee yet, in form as palpable / As this which now I draw._ ” _  
_ Neil gawked alongside the audience as he witnessed Macbeth’s mind and thoughts unravel right in front of his eyes, Andrew talked of daggers and murders feverishly, his fingers visibly shaking around the real knife as Macbeth slowly struggled to get a hold of reality. The always collected and unbreakable Andrew now looked dazed and unfocused, his mind a whirlwind of instability. “ _There’s no such thing. / It is the bloody business which informs / Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world_ ” Andrew was saying: there’s no dagger here. It’s the murder I’m about to do that’s making me think I see one.  
Watching the scene unfold right before his eyes could’ve been compared to an outer body experience; the character of Macbeth – talking of murders and bloody daggers – was merging to Andrew perfectly, so much so that Neil couldn’t see where one stopped and the other began. Neil felt stuck to his posting at the shed, couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle – couldn’t bring himself to think of nothing but Andrew.  
“ _Thou sure and firm-set earth, / Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear / Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,_ ” Andrew was now addressing the ground, the earth, praying it wouldn’t betray him and give away his position. He looked like a soldier going into battle, fierce and resolute, he looked like the devil, forbiddingly tempting. A feeling of dread poured over Neil as he realized the scene was about to come to a close.  
“ _I go, and it is done_ ” Neil breathed in his final few words like he was exhaling his last, dying breaths. And as Andrew left the stage and walked towards him, Neil just wondered. He wondered how could someone that claimed not to care about theater act with such power and pathos. He wondered how it was possible for someone so unscathed and unmoved by the plays to breathe life into Shakespeare’s words with such reverence. Andrew had just acted like his life had depended on it, like he had everything to lose. Yet, the man that was now closer to him looked perfectly stoical to the virtuosity that had just taken place by his own hands – his frenzied smile had settled back on his face and Neil briefly also wondered how much willpower it took to force that same smile into hiding during a performance.  
Neil was, apparently, still staring at him when Andrew finally approached him by the shed, because he got greeted by a delirious “Don’t look at me like that.” Before getting roughly shoved towards the shed.  
They were almost inside when a frenzy broke out in the audience, audible gasps and bellows filling the air. Both Neil and Andrew turned towards the canoe on the lake just in time to see a robed slender figure dramatically appear from the deep waters. Kevin Day was naked from the waist up and completely soaked as he made his way through the ripples in the lake, his voice booming as he howled and screamed wildly.  
“ _Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly._ ” Called out Allison from another spot in the river where all three witches stood, no one had seen them approach yet again.  
Andrew laughed devilishly as he realized who Kevin’s character was – Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft – he finally succeeded in pushing Neil inside the shed as he merrily declared “Finally a character to match his _dramatic potential_.” He had quoted Kevin directly.  
Outside, Kevin was haughtily berating the witches in a manner that, Neil thought, closely resembled his everyday tantrums “ _Have I not reason, beldams as you are? / Saucy and overbold, how did you dare / To trade and traffic with Macbeth / In riddles and affairs of death, / And I, the mistress of your charms, / The close contriver of all harms, / Was never called to bear my part, / Or show the glory of our art?_ ”  
Inside, in the near darkness save for one sad old candle, Andrew was eying Neil up and down, eyes glinting with mischief.  
“What.” Asked Neil, unsettled by the deep stare. Andrew’s smile grew even wider.  
“ _For the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me / And points at them for his._ ” Quoted Andrew directly from Act 4. _Banquo, with his bloodclotted hair smiles upon me._ “The art department has been preparing fake blood all week, aren’t you ecstatic!”  
It was then that Neil spotted the bucket filled to the brink with what looked to be a dense and clotty fluid. Andrew reached it first as Kevin screeched and howled outside.  
Kevin, sensationally: “ _He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear / His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear. / And you all know, security / Is mortals' chiefest enemy._ ”  
Andrew: “Time for your transformation, Cinderella.”  
Neil stared at his own costume, then at the bucket which contents would be soon poured all over him and remembered his costume designer’s harsh warnings not to ruin her work. He desperately worked on quelling his rising panic as he realized what he was expected to do. He thought back to Kevin, with his naked torso acting only a few dozen feet away, then to the girls, with their drenched and almost see-through robes, and he suddenly felt too aware of his own body: suddenly, his chest was on fire, all of his scars stinging and igniting with smoldering pain all at once. He attempted to take off his jacket, resolute on mimicking his colleague’s efforts, but everything burned on his skin like newly obtained wounds. His hands grabbed the fabric of his sleeve but simultaneously refused to pull, his mind was screaming at him to get undressed and to stop trying to get undressed all at the same time: Pressure and Expectation were now loitering in the shadows of the shed, tutting and shaking their heads in disappointment. His ears filled with the hectic sound of his blood pumping, his breathing coming in jagged. Then, a strong hand was on the back of his neck, grabbing harshly and pulling his head down; another hand detangled the death grip he had on his own sleeve as Andrew’s words grew louder in his head: he was demanding he stop. And Neil wanted to scream at him, wanted to have him know it wasn’t _that_ easy, that if he were able to _just stop,_ he would’ve already done so. But by the time he was about to open his mouth to tell him just that he realized he couldn’t hear his own heartbeat in his ears anymore, nor did his chest feel set ablaze.  
“Take your jacket and vest off, keep your undershirt on. No one wants to see you naked anyway, Josten.” Despite his efforts, Neil was way too dazed to feel offended, so he complied. The undershirt was a tighter fit than he was used to and it showed a few scars here and there – nothing thar Andrew hadn’t already seen during the previous years – but Neil figured that the fake blood, with its scarily high viscosity, mixed with the darkness of the night would do a good enough job at hiding them. Kevin was almost done with his speech, and they could hear the first notes of the witches’ song be uttered: it was a matter of minutes before Andrew would have to reappear on stage.  
“Ready?” he had grabbed the bucket and was waiting patiently for Neil to nod yes. As soon as he received it, Andrew raised his hands up high and let the liquid drip and splash all over Neil’s head. The blood was warm and it reeked of a crummy sweetness, Neil pawed at his eyes until he could open them again and fought hard to reel his mind right back in as the thought of being covered in blood brought back unpleasant memories. To distract himself, he jokingly asked “How do I look?” not daring to look at Andrew.  
He knew he probably looked like an image straight out of a horror movie, with blood dripping from his curls and running down his face. With blood clinging to his every muscle and curve, drenching his trousers and forcing them to stick to his thighs as well.  
At the sudden silence, he risked a cautious glance at Andrew. The smile was still present on his face, but his eyes were glinting with something resembling urge.  
“Like a pipe dream.” He said eventually, and just like that, he left.  
Neil blinked a few times, unsure what to do and unable to process what had just happened. Until he heard Macbeth’s voice questioning the witches and, like a call to duty, he set into motion. He was running before he knew it, circling the shed and taking the long way around through the paths that he now knew and followed like they were second nature to him. He made it back to his initial pathway – his starting point – with enough time to spare to witness the apogee of the play: a bonfire had been lit at the center of the stage, it was glowing a dark and scary light over Dan, Allison and Renee – who were standing on one side of it – and Andrew – who was standing on the other looking deadly and demanding. When suddenly, Seth’s voice boomed around them.  
“ _MACBETH! MACBETH! MACBETH! BEWARE MACDUFF. BEWARE THE THANE OF FIFE. DISMISS ME. ENOUGH._ ” Neil fought the urge to laugh as he realized that Seth’s role had been confined to the role of first, second and third apparitions. He almost understood Seth’s anger as he listened to him go through his scarce and few lines – his voice the only thing present on stage.  
Neil waited silently for his cue, the stage blood sticking uncomfortably to his every surface as Seth’s voice roared around the lake. Andrew was now looking spooked and unsure, the expression and mannerisms once again completely foreign on Andrew’s body and face.  
By the time the scene was over, and Seth’s voice had vanished, eight cloaked figures were marching towards the towering fire: it was Neil’s cue for Banquo’s ghost to appear. Neil plastered a terrifying grin on his face – one that closely resembled Andrew’s drug induced one – and marched on stage after them, the sight of him enough to fright several audience members (it was Halloween, after all). Neil swore he specifically heard Nicky’s shriek in the midst of the cries.  
Andrew was staring at the eight ghosts in deep horror, the lit fire projecting shadows and lights alike on his face as he spoke.  
Andrew: “ _Horrible sight! Now I see ’tis true; / For the blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me / And points at them for his._ ”  
Finally, Neil stepped out in front of him, the eight figures disappearing inside the audience. Andrew’s hazel eyes glimmered in the fire’s light as they turned to gawk at the horrific view that was Neil: blood dripping all around him and teeth baring in a cruel bloody smile.  
“ _What, is this true?_ ” He asked the witches, his stare refusing to turn away from the sight of his Banquo. They were now standing face to face, only a few feet apart. They locked eyes and Neil faltered slightly, Andrew’s hazel eyes dripped with an emotion that Neil couldn’t quite figure out – but, whatever it was, it made blood chill in his veins and shivers run down his entire body.  
It was Allison that interrupted whatever was happening between them, as she trudged her sisters behind and mischievously started talking to Macbeth, finally breaking the spell that Banquo’s ghost had put on him. They reeled him towards the fire as the witches began chanting and dancing a hellish dance. A bell tolled around them and Andrew snuck away as the girls’ chanting got louder, their movements even more desperate and bold.  
“ _DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE, / FIRE BURN AND CAULDRON BUBBLE. / COOL IT WITH A BABOON’S BLOOD, / THEN THE CHARM IS FIRM AND GOOD._ ” They now sounded reckless, their bodies twisting in synch. Renee grabbed a bucket filled to the brim with a dense red liquid. Neil took it as his cue to retreat back between the trees.  
“ _DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE, / FIRE BURN AND CAULDRON BUBBLE. / COOL IT WITH A BABOON’S BLOOD, / THEN THE CHARM IS FIRM AND GOOD._ ” The chants were louder, almost demonic. Their dances wicked and horrific. Then, Renee raised her bucket towards the fire and suddenly everything descended into darkness.

By the time enough candles had been lit (Neil had later learned that, as part of Kevin’s dramatic staging of Hecate, he had thrown the candles that had initially defined the stage into the bonfire because “ _You see Neil, a good actor has to get entirely into their character; Hecate would’ve done that_ ”), a total of twenty different students from several Palmetto departments and years had already flocked around the soaked girls to offer them their jackets and compliments – to no avail. Matt had already wrapped Dan in several of his jerseys as soon as the bonfire had been put out. Renee had gratefully accepted Nicky’s jacket as soon as he had approached them – eyes glinting with pride and a sketchy guarantee that he hadn’t, for the record, been the one to shriek at the sight of Neil. Allison, instead, had waited a whole five minutes for Seth to show up from his hiding place and, in the end, she had simply jumped back into the water of the lake – muttering something about men being useless under her breath. Kevin, still shirtless, had settled to warming himself up the old way: by guzzling down a bottle of whisky that Wymack had kindly bought him; he’d put it down only to accept handshakes or compliments, but only for very brief moments. Eventually, the crowd thinned out; leaving only the oldest and closest friends to the foxes to loiter about the lake. Seth had, ultimately, showed up with several liquor bottles in his hands as companions and a scowl so dark and fierce it managed to deter every single one of his friends from coming close to him. Even Renee had opted out of trying to talk to him. Throughout the night, Seth refused to acknowledge any of the foxes and sat as far from the party as he could. It wasn’t until Allison successfully talked everyone into a game of _chicken fight_ that Seth scoffed so loudly that everything stopped for a few seconds. Then, Allison – as fiercely and resolute as ever – turned her attention back to organizing her tournament and everyone’s attention reluctantly followed. Having Seth’s presence loom over their night felt unsettling and wrong, but everyone was buzzed enough to be able to forget it quickly, only Neil couldn’t shake the ugly feeling pooling in his stomach. He hopelessly tried to ignore it as he stared as Matt took Dan onto his shoulders and faced off against Jeremy Knox, a fourth-year moral philosophy student, and Renee. No one was surprised when the latter pair lost “It’s like fighting out against Maria Theresa and Gandhi.” Protested Allison as Matt and Dan were still celebrating. “Josten, come here let’s show them how to lose.” Neil blinked up from his spot on the river, the blood had crusted all over his body, creating a thick film around the vast majority of his skin that Neil had been trying to scratch it off for the past hours, earning several grossed out stares.  
“C’mon Neil, if not to win, at least do it so you can wash off that awful stuff.” Bartered Allison, who had already jumped in the lake again – it was the fourth time that night. Her manicured fingers reached towards him. Neil could feel Seth’s stare on him as he moved to jump into the water, deep and heavy on his back. But once Allison settled on something it was hard to shake her from obtaining it, so Neil pushed down and down his anxieties and reached her. After all, Allison had been particularly flirty with him – when mad at Seth, Allison could and would flirt with anyone, really – all throughout their four years and Neil had never ended up hurt, he had all the reasons not to be intimidated by Seth anymore. In addition, in his life Neil had definitely experienced worse than a grumpy private college kid.  
“Hey, don’t call it awful.” Chided Katelyn, a fourth-year ballerina who was dating Andrew’s twin “The art department worked hard on it.” The foxes ignored her, except for Renee who smiled warmly at her and thanked Aaron – who sat unimpressed at his girlfriend’s side – for his efforts.  
Neil, in the meantime, had reached Allison in the waters and, with only a little bit of effort, had successfully hoisted her up on his shoulders. Allison, who had previously been the referee, turned to a buzzed Kevin and ordered “Day, it’s your time to shine.” Everyone waited for the actor’s slurred countdown before the two couples began pushing and pulling. Matt and Dan had the vantage of height and sheer force, with Dan being more heavyset than Allison and Matt being an ex-boxer, but what Allison and Neil lacked in skill and technique they made up with Allison’s viciousness. While Neil grabbed Allison’s thighs and held her steady, she pushed and shoved and pulled with astounding intensity: Dan was in the waters only minutes later.  
“I call foul.” Protested Matt jokingly, all heads turned to Referee Kevin, who had promptly returned to drinking. He raised his eyebrows in confusion as he took in everyone else’s stares, “Never mind.” gave up Matt, an amused smile adorning his features.  
“Now you can get your squalid hands off of my girlfriend’s thighs, Josten.” Seth’s voice hit them like an iced water shower “I said Now. Unless you want me to hack them off.”  
Wordlessly, Neil sank lower in the water to let Allison off, but she held on; her thighs squeezing harder around his shoulders defiantly. “Go back to sulking Seth, I’m not going to listen to the words of a tantrum-throwing kid.” Adamant to prove a point, Allison’s fingers found their way into Neil’s hair and he finally looked up over the river to stare at the remaining group of people waiting for them on the shore: Matt and Dan had hoisted themselves out of the waters and were dripping all over everything and everyone, but their attention was focused on Seth. Renee was still seated, her legs tucked underneath herself and, despite her calm appearance, Neil could see the tense energy in her shoulders – she looked ready to react at any second. Kevin was slightly dazed, but his mind was clear enough to sense the danger buzzing in the air; his hand had left the liquor bottle and his eyes kept snaking past Renee to stare at Seth. Aaron, Jeremy and Katelyn were looking particularly confused and uncomfortable at the sudden tension in the atmosphere. Andrew was the only one completely unphased, his eyes unfocusedly locked on the spot where Neil’s shoulders were being squeezed by Allison’s thighs. Although his smile was still present, the lack of focus in his eyes was a tell-tale sign that the drugs in his system were still prevailing, but not for much longer – in a few hours Andrew would begin to get down from his high and Neil wasn’t looking forward to it.  
“I’m going to kill you.” Growled Seth, still not making any attempt to move in his direction. Neil took it as a good sign, logically he knew that it was impossible for Seth to try and hurt him: after all, despite his constant threats, Seth had never been violent towards any of the foxes before. Neil knew that Allison trusted him, that was why she was challenging him that way in the first place – she was trying to teach him a lesson in a very Allison-coded way. They stood, looking at each other in a silent impasse, until Neil’s shoulders started to ache.  
“I’ll help you climb down now.” The air was strained as Neil lowered himself in the water yet again, and brought his hands to Allison’s thighs to help her off. Neil heard a few sighs of relief as Allison padded away from him and towards the shore.  
He could only blink before a weight was on him yet again, grabbing at him and jostling him in and out of the water surface: Seth had grabbed him and was shaking him with violent rage, rattling Neil’s brain contents with every shake. He attempted to fight back, but Seth was twice his size and had taken him by surprise. He could only half-heartedly make up the angry screams coming from his friends as Seth shook him like a pair of maracas.

Then, it happens all in a couple of seconds: Seth’s hands left Neil’s arms and wildly shoved him away. And, by the time Neil’s vision recoiled from the blurry mess he had been seeing, two men were already full-fledged fighting right in front of him. He recognized Seth immediately, with his trademark powerful arms and furious eyes, but it took Neil another couple of heartbeats to realize that the person fitfully fighting him back was Kevin Day. _Kevin Day_ , who, during his first year at Palmetto, had been so scared of real and acted-out fights that he would shake and quiver at the mere sight. _Kevin Day_ , who had resolutely sought out Andrew’s protection and had stuck by his side ever since. _Kevin Day_ , who, that same year, had flinched at the mention of hand-to-hand combat training.  
But the person who was now standing up to Seth didn’t resemble the scared and broken Kevin Day who quivered in corners and hid behind Andrew’s back, that Kevin was the version that had peaked out during Nicky’s class. It was the version that had backhanded Neil so fiercely that his face had split in two. It was the Kevin that, up until that year, had only revealed himself while on stage: a bold and fiery man, a powerful menace, _a tragic hero_. Neil wasn’t seeing broken and traumatized Kevin Day, he was seeing a soldier off to battle, a man standing up to tyrants and despots; Neil was seeing Brutus standing up to Caesar. Except that they weren’t on stage and, in the real world, sheer willpower and moral superiority don’t always win against pure strength and power; and Kevin’s tragic flaw had always been his lack of awareness thus, after an initial equal toss-up, the bigger man’s toughness prevailed.  
Neil, who was still shaken, felt his knees buckle as the the scene unfolded right in front of his powerless eyes: Seth, who managed to grab Kevin by the hair, began pushing the other man down, into the water, with all of his mighty strength. Kevin’s limbs flailed as Seth held him down below the surface, while spewing taunting words at him that Neil couldn’t make out over the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears; frozen in place as he stared helplessly at his yielding friend, trashing defeatedly underneath the water. To this day, Neil knows that the entire torture lasted only a couple of seconds, but in that moment – and in the infinite nightmares that would haunt him ever since – it felt like an entire lifetime. He had to fight to stay afloat as his mind screamed and bellowed “ _he’s going to kill him_ ” over and over again. And then, it was over: one second before, Kevin was struggling with his entire body underwater, in the next heartbeat he had been pushed right against Neil’s shaken body.  
“Do something useful and get him out.” Snarled Andrew, his voice uncharacteristically high pitched and crazed; Neil quickly registered the knife held against Seth’s throat and swayed in the waters a couple more seconds, until he finally worked himself out of his daze. He grabbed Kevin, who was sputtering and gagging helplessly and slowly hauled him towards the shore, where two very concerned Matt and Dan were waiting for them.  
The following minutes were all a blur: throughout his years on the run, Neil’s mom had taught him how to power through shock in order to still be functional (and useful). So, while his mind was still completely stranded on the sight of Kevin’s limbs flailing in destitution, his body worked operatively. Neil’s ears had popped out of the deafness that the shock had built around him, but he still barely registered the bedlam of sounds encapsulating the lake as he hoisted Kevin’s listless body upwards – Dan and Matt meeting him midway and finally getting him to shore. He only faintly recognized Andrew’s icy voice as he asserted “ _you know better than to touch my things, Seth_ ” and Seth’s strained reply of “ _it_ _was just a game, man. We were just playing._ ” After that, Neil barely registered Renee’s calm negotiations as she attempted to coax Andrew away from the other man and the female screams and unhelpful suggestions that were also being uttered – He quickly took notice of them before tuning them out, his mind focused on the task at hand. _Just_ _take care of him, Neil._ It was easy to get lost in his mind as he fussed over Kevin’s trembling body the same way he once had used to fuss over his mother’s after a particularly bad fight for their lives, _just take care of her Neil._ Eventually, as Neil was busy with a vomiting Kevin, he caught sight of what he assumed was a – still alive – limping Seth, stalking away from the lake. Next thing he knew, he was faintly croaking “ _No ambulances_ ” when a female voice – Katelyn, probably – pitched the idea of calling 911.  
“You can go,” said Renee, her voice gentle, but it was clear that it wasn’t simply a suggestion “we’ll handle it.” In their years living as foxes, surrounded by broken and precarious people, the actors had learned how to take care of themselves and each other. If there was anything that Kevin needed, his foxes would provide.  
That night, they spent several hours on that shore. Huddling close to Kevin to protect him from any possible harm. They brought covers to keep him warm as he shook and unraveled right in front of them, with the – now still – lake as their only witness. Eventually, when the first lights of a new day snaked their way out from in between the trees, they managed to walk him to the house.  
Seth and Andrew were nowhere to be found.

_SCENE 5_

_To Be Continued in the next chapter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *all inspiration for most (not all of it) of the dialogue in scene 3 comes mostly (not entirely, I added a couple of insights and paraphrased a lot) from M.L. Rio because I’m not smart enough to strike up a full-on argument over Shakespeare – a somewhat attempt was made but yeah… sorry  
> \---  
> If you liked this chapter please, please consider leaving me a comment/kudos, they really are greatly appreciated and make my day!  
> If you find any mistakes please let me know! I still don't have a beta reader and english isn't my first language, i'm trying my best to provide good quality writing, but I know i'm due to make several mistakes. If you want, you can follow me on tumblr at @nattsunoyume (if you need help with the Shakespearean parts of the fanfiction please send me a dm! I'll gladly help you!!)  
> ALso also, I know that Shakespearean english is pretty hard (esp. for people that aren't native english speakers), so I'll just leave Macbeth's pdf here: it has modern text next to the original one - if there are some lines in this chapter that you don't /get/ you can find them here https://hibsenglish.weebly.com/uploads/7/2/3/6/7236232/macbeth_no_fear_script.pdf  
> Thank you,  
> Nicole (me)


	3. Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Happy New Year!!! My gift to you is a chapter under 10k for once. Enjoy.  
> (also still looking for a **beta** someone help)
> 
> **TW** : slight mentions of homophobia, death-ish?
> 
> _also_ huge thank you to [_Sammy_](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammy/pseuds/Sammy) for their sweet comments, you've been very kind with your comments and I'm dedicating this chapter to you.

_SCENE 5_

In his _De Poetica,_ Aristotle defines hamartia as a tragic mistake. It’s seen as a small, little error – a tiny drop in the water that ripples out and extends. Despite its lack of magnitude, it’s an occurrence that defines the point of no return, the final step before doom. It’s the first note of an inevitable, but unforeseen Greek chorus. Hamartia is the first trickle of snow rushing down a slope, picking up speed and slowly – but surely – transforming into an avalanche. But hamartia also means “to fall short on something”, it means “to miss the mark”. It’s never a mistake brought upon by misfortune or vices, instead Aristotle insists upon man's responsibility for his actions. In his eyes, the foxes’ _hamartia,_ the cause of their downfall _,_ wouldn’t be Seth’s actions or wrath; rather their own omerta, their silence.   
On November 1st, Seth walked into the Foxhole with his head downturned and his fists clenched and the foxes watched, assessing and tense, as he made his way up the stairs and into his own bedroom. No one spoke a word.  
On November 2nd, a Sunday night, they headed to the Hall’s theater to resume nightly rehearsals. They sat comfortably in the first row as Wymack and Betsy sat crossed legged on stage and listened to them read their scripts, shooting lines back and forth. Seth sat three rows away from them. No one spoke a word.  
On November 3rd, they walked to class, moving like a pack – with Kevin in the center. When they spotted Seth already sitting in a corner, his stare hollow and deep, dark circles under his eyes, no one spoke a word.   
On November 4th, when Kevin finally stopped spiking every single one of his drinks – be it cocoa, coffee or even water – with strong liquors, they all quietly nodded to him in approval. They promptly ignored that someone else was constantly spiking his own drinks, no one commented on it, no one tried to talk him out of it – not like they did with Kevin. After all, he had been the perpetrator, he had set their own tragedy into motion and had decided not to atone. In the foxes’ eyes, Seth had determined his own fate, so no one spoke a word.

The more Seth dethatched from them, the more the remaining foxes coalesced. Even Andrew, that had always been reclusive and reticent, began walking side by side with them – Neil knew it was simply because Kevin needed to be with his group more than he had ever needed and, with Andrew more alert and protecting, they had no choice but all stay together. The two factions would interact only in academic settings: in Betsy’s class, Seth would keep to himself as much as possible and speak only when spoken to; in Wymack – that had finally given up on the _emotions_ exercise – and Nicky’s classes, Seth would civilly follow the assignments without fail. And, on stage, he would give it his all, acting with such passion and rage that the stage would shake with his love for Rome, his love for power, his love for his subjects.  
It seemed like a peaceful compromise: the foxes were left to their own wounds to lick, picking up the pieces of a severely shattered Kevin; while Seth, who had once been part of that flawed but functioning union, did whatever he pleased. Except, when a layer of snow collapses and it begins to slowly make its descent, it doesn’t matter how hard you try to ignore it, doesn’t matter that – if you look up, towards the mountain – you can’t see it coming towards you anymore. The avalanche is there, festering, picking up speed. It might be silent, but it vibrates, it shakes the ground even before you can see it with your own eyes.   
And, one evening – a week before their opening night – the ground began to shake again. They were rehearsing _Act III, scene 1:_ Caesar’s death. And Neil was tired. He had been appointed a secondary character at the last second after one of Wymack’s infamous tantrums (“ _take this disgrace off of my stage before I push him myself. Neil – it’s your role now”)_ so here Neil was, getting ready for a scene he had, initially, not been intended to be in. Kevin was right next to him in the wings of the theater, waiting for their turn to be called upon the stage. He was finally looking more alive than he had ever since Halloween, his cheeks were plumper and his eyes alight with purposefulness and that hint of arrogance that distinguished him.   
“You look nice in your conspirator robes, Casca.” He said as Seth walked on stage. Neil shrugged in the oversized robes, the junior whose role he had taken over had been bigger and taller than him and the costume department had yet to fix his costume. Aaron, who was in their rehearsals on _set duty_ (every art-department student had to eventually do it, to gain credits) glanced briefly at Neil’s long sleeves and baggy drapery and scoffed starkly.   
Wymack, from the first row, mimicked a flourish of trumpets and the conspirators all walked in from different sides of the stage. Neil instantly spotted Andrew in his blood-red toga, a stark contrast with his fair skin and light blond hair. Following Nicky’s creative request, all the conspirators were to wear blood-red robes and Seth a white one. After Scene III, though, the white – pure and candid – toga would adorn Kevin’s body.   
A timid second-year approached Andrew and in a low, tentative voice he said: “ _I wish your enterprise today may thrive._ ” then silence. Andrew’s _What enterprise, Popilius?_ lingered unsaid in the air. Although uncaring of rehearsals, Andrew would usually deign his colleagues the favor of reciting his own lines in a monotone, unbothered voice. On some particular days, though, Andrew just didn’t seem in the mood to act; thus, he’d stay quiet. Everyone had learned to accept it and move on.   
Neil nudged the second-year, a silent warning to move on. The boy coughed, unsure and then said “ _Fare you well._ ” before scurrying over to where Seth, was standing.   
Kevin walked over to Andrew as well, his stance completely upturned from his usual one “ _What said Popilius Lena?_ ” silence yet again, Andrew didn’t even turn to look at him. Wymack read out Cassius’ line from the audience while Kevin kept looking at Andrew and reacted accordingly to the words, as if he’d been the ones to say them. Then, he spoke again “ _Look, how he makes to Caesar. Mark him._ ”  
They slowly went through their lines. When the conspirators moved towards Seth, who was sitting on his high senate chair, Andrew followed them. The conspirators kneeled in front of the throne and began begging Caesar for Publius Cimber’s freedom and, as Wymack’s voice boomed from the seats “ _Pardon, Caesar! Caesar, pardon! / As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall / To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber._ ” Neil found it easy to understand why Andrew, sober and proud, refused to enact it.   
Seth’s booming voice enclosed the entire stage as he stared down at Kevin’s kneeling form and snidely asserted “ _Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?_ ” it was Neil’s cue to get up from his knees. His stare was fierce as he walked over to Seth’s towering form, a stage knife glinting in the hand hidden behind his back – for the audience to see.  
“ _Speak, hands, for me!_ ” he fake stabbed Seth under his armpit and quickly moved out of the way, then it was several third-years’ turn, then Andrew’s. This time, Seth reached out and grabbed the blond’s arm, right over his black armbands – right over the spot Neil knew hid a sharp, real knife. All the actors stopped in their tracks. Everyone – from the rookie freshmen to the stubborn juniors – knew better than to touch Andrew. Throughout the years it had become one of the many cautionary tales: don’t walk under the coat of arms at midnight, it means four years of bad luck; don’t go into the bathrooms on the third floor of the hall, they’re haunted; don’t touch the small blond fox, it’s an omen of death.   
“Don’t touch me.” His expression was stoic and unmoved, but his voice dripped venom. Nothing moved on and off stage. They all stood at an impasse.  
“What’s your problem, _bro_? You can’t become an actor and expect people not to touch you.” His hand was still gripping Andrew’s arm, seemingly right over his sheathed knife. Andrew didn’t move.  
“What’s going on?” came Wymack’s voice, Neil perceived it as miles away.  
“Nothing.” Seth feigned innocence, squeezed Andrew’s arm once more before letting go “We can resume.”  
But when no one moved, Seth’s hands flexed into fists “I said we can resume.”  
“Seth, you better behave or I’m having Neil learn all of your lines.” Neil couldn’t help the shudder that came at the thought of learning _yet_ another new set of lines “You’ll be watching the show from the first row instead of the stage. Understood?” Wymack’s voice thundered around the theater and Seth replied with a scoffed out _yes coach_.  
Eventually, Andrew moved aside, face impassible, and one by one eight other undergraduates approached Seth and tentatively stabbed him. Finally, Kevin moved towards him. He looked fierce and proud – like he had at the lake, before Seth’s sheer force had overtaken him. Neil could see in Kevin’s eyes that he was about to take his moral revenge for that. In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, the tyrant should look betrayed and dismayed, he should feel pain at Brutus’s disloyalty. Instead, Seth stared at him with so much hatred that Neil felt a shiver run down his spine.   
“ _Et tu, Brute?_ ” Seth almost spit it out; Kevin moved to stab and Seth grabbed his bicep as he crouched down, dying. “ _Then fall, Caesar!_ ”

_SCENE 6_

As opening week drew nearer, the rehearsal sessions grew longer and harsher. Betsy canceled her own analysis-driven lessons to grant them additional character-driven practices. Neil watched from his spot on the sofa as Kevin and Andrew rehearsed the famous tent scene and watched them fight – Kevin righteous and full of passion and Andrew, apathetic and uncaring.  
Andrew: “ _You know that you are Brutus saying this, / Because if you were anyone else / I swear by the gods that this speech would be your last._ ”   
And Neil couldn’t help but see the analogies and similarities between Andrew and Cassius. They both made promises to their Brutus, they both wouldn’t be able to kill him.   
Kevin, passionately: “… _/ I would rather be a dog, and howl at the moon, / Than be a Roman like that._ ”  
Andrew, impassively: “ _Brutus, do not provoke me, / I will not put up with it. You forget who you are /When you try to put restrictions on me._ ”  
Neil took a sharp intake as he realized just how _similar._ His own script forgotten as he focused his entire attention on the duo. He sensed several other stares across the room and met the amused gazes of his colleagues.   
Andrew: “ _Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; / Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther._ ”  
It was like looking through a speculum. Neil was sure he had witnessed several fights similar to that. He couldn’t wait to experience it on stage. His eyes felt glued to Andrew. He could now hear the snickers of a fond Renee.  
Kevin, trying not to break character: “ _Away, little man!_ ”  
A burst of laughter broke out from the other side of the room, Matt was smiling indulgently as Allison muttered “Shakespeare truly wrote this for the two of you”. The foxes all joined in the joke. They were so consumed by their mirth, basking in a moment of pure enjoyment that they completely forgot about the shadow looming over them – the avalanche. Approaching, thundering – Seth was out of the room in a matter of seconds, shoving Allison out of his way with as much force as he could muster. Her snappy laugher turned into a cry of pain as she landed on her side.

_SCENE 7_

Their final rehearsal ended smoothly, with no fights nor animosity. It had taken them years, but the foxes had eventually learned how to keep their outbursts to a minimum when on stage, no matter their hostilities. Finally reaching that point had been a great step forward and a good show of maturity – although no one could forget Seth’s entrance on scene during their sophomore year, as an extra for the third-years’ _Romeo and Juliet_ : all heavy stares and a very non-discreet middle finger aimed at Capulet Kevin. Luckily, the audience – presumably thinking it a modern take on the Capulet-Montague rivalry – had laughed. Wymack, not so much.  
Usually, Neil waited in the wings of the stage until he assumed that the boys’ dressing room was finally empty. Throughout the years he had gotten better at dealing with his scars and own body image, but he still preferred the quiet and privacy of an unoccupied dressing room. He would loiter around the stage, instead, helping re-set it or just simply staring at the emptiness until he figured it’d be safe to walk out and into the corridors behind. That night, though, when Neil finally headed to the room, he didn’t find it empty. Kevin was still there, costume off and scattered on a vanity. From his spot in the door, Neil could only see his bare back. Yet, something else caught his attention: Kevin’s toned arms were adorned by a constellation of blues and purples. They spread all around his biceps in irregular patters, they circled each other and sometimes overlapped. In some places, the bruises were fading to a lighter yellow; in others, the color was bright and fresh.   
“Kevin.” Was all that Neil could muster at the sight of his colleague’s arms. He closed and locked the door behind them before tentatively approaching him. “What happened.”  
Kevin kept his back turned as he pulled a bunched-up t-shirt over his head. “Seth happened.”  
When Neil didn’t speak, Kevin finally turned around, eyes wide and anguished. “I thought,” his hand scrubbed over his face for a few seconds “after I left Edgar Allan, I thought I’d never–” but he didn’t need to finish his sentence, because Neil already knew what he meant. Neil had been there to witness it all: the fucked-up state Kevin had walked into Palmetto in, all bruises and voice no more than a whisper. He had been scared to walk on stage, scared of being better than his classmates – just in case _someone else_ didn’t abide to the idea too well.  
Kevin smiled bitterly at the silence and, just like any time in which his own words failed him, he filled the void with what he knew best: “ _Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy._ ” _My own people have become their own enemy_.  
Neil could, objectively, understand where Kevin was coming from – he stared at his bruised arms and remembered Kevin’s battered face all those years before (“ _He said – who’s gonna want a disfigured actor”_ ) – he could see that, in theory, the two situations were similar. Except that, to Neil, they were different. Because Kevin now had a support system. And he now had Andrew, whose only interest seemed to be that of protecting him. Neil wanted to tell him that it was different, so very different. Wanted to scream at him that Seth wasn’t a new Riko, that he had left _those_ horrors at Evermore.  
Instead, he pointed at his arms and said: “Andrew doesn’t know.” Not a question, a simple statement. Because there was no way that Andrew knew, Seth would have already been dead if he did “He promised to protect you.”  
As if sensing Neil’s own thoughts, Kevin echoed: “You know he’d kill him.” A shrug of shoulders from Neil “I can’t let it happen, the show–”  
“You’re not saying anything because of the show?” This time it was Kevin’s turn to shrug.   
“I’ll talk to Wymack when the play is done. It can wait.” And Neil wanted to protest, but he knew that nothing could come in between Kevin Day and the stage. It was a war he – no one, really – couldn’t win. So, Neil just mumbled a “Do as you please…” his eyes trained on the thespian’s arms, where the shirt was now concealing his bruises.

_SCENE 8_

The night of the premiere, the entire theater was a sold out. The foxes loitered around the corridor behind the stage in their costumes, their faces heavily covered in makeup. Allison and Renee wore pristine _stolas,_ Allison’s hair immaculately curled to perfection and braided like a crown all around her head. Renee, instead, wore a braided updo wig to cover her not-so-historical white and rainbow hair. The men, instead, all looked severe in their own costumes, their expression to match. Except for Andrew’s drug-induced smile.   
Kevin looked like an Adonis, with his tall and muscled figure; his arms were bare and spotless – his bruises carefully concealed after the several hours he had spent in the bathroom at the Foxhole. Neil hoped the layers of foundation on his skin would hold even under the heuristic, bright lights of the stage.

The first two acts passed by like a blur, the words and motions felt like second nature to them. If Neil closed his eyes, he could perfectly imagine himself walking through the streets of Rome, he could see the senate in front of him, he could feel the thrill of a battlefield. As the conspirators spoke of Caesar’s impending end, Neil felt his blood pump in his ears, all excitement and trepidation. He relished in the titillation of acting with Andrew – with an Andrew that would willing answer back, that would play into his part so deeply. They plotted and chatted back and forth as _allies_ , Casca and Cassius. And, later in the play, they’d fight as _enemies_ , Octavius and Cassius. To Neil, it felt like an adequate representation of their relationship, Neil and Andrew: allies and enemies alike.  
From the wings, they watched as Seth and Allison acted out Caesar and Calpurnia’s final scene and excitement bred as the conspirators prepared for their _coup the grace_. The end of Act 2 was met with a flurry of applause and cheers, Neil stood his ground as pupils ran on stage to set the scene. Allison passed them by with an award-winning smile and relished in the compliments thrown her way. She was gone in mere seconds.   
When they eventually all walked on stage, though, Neil’s enthusiasm died down to leave space for concern. Something in Seth’s stance didn’t feel right. As the tyrant walked on stage, Neil could spot his whiter-than-normal complexion and the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead. His voice, as well, was louder than needed and, by the time the conspirators bowed to his feet, he was almost snarling with tension and distaste. When Neil rose to his feet, a dagger hidden behind his back, he let himself follow the steps he had rehearsed until that day: _walk towards Caesar’s seat, fake-stab Caesar, let Caesar fake-push you away.  
_ Neil walked towards Caesar’s seat.  
“ _Speak, hands, for me!_ ” Neil fake-stabbed Caesar.  
And he let himself be pushed away, except Seth _really_ pushed him away. The taller man grabbed his right wrist, whose hand was still fake-stabbing him, with enough force that Neil couldn’t help but hiss. Using his wrist as leverage, he pushed him with enough force to send him reeling on the ground. His arm hit the stage floor with a _crack_ , that was thankfully masked by the commotion on stage. Second and third-years were now taking their turn in stabbing Caesar. Andrew was next. And, finally, Kevin. From his spot on the floor, Neil saw the moment in which Seth grabbed Kevin’s arms with so much force the muscles spasmed.  
“ _Et tu, Brute?_ ” rang through the now silent stage, it came out more like a growl than anything else.   
The remaining scene passed by like a blur, the searing pain in Neil’s arm dimming as more time passed. When they finally exited the stage – where Matt, as Antony, was now giving a heartfelt monologue, begging Caesar for pardon and cursing the faith of Italy – Kevin immediately deflated. Andrew, next to them, was now back to smiling almost triumphantly “who doesn’t love a good stabbing.” he said, before casting his eyes back to the stage.  
Sending a careful glance at Andrew, Kevin spoke in hushed French “ _T’a-t-il frappé aussi_?” Neil nodded.  
“ _Il a blessé quelqu'un d'autre_?” Neil glanced at Andrew, who was looking at anywhere but them.   
“ _Juste nous deux_ ” Then he added “ _Matt a vu_ _tout_. _Quand il demandera, tu dois mentir_.”  
“ _Je ne mentira pas_ –” but Andrew’s patience had died down and he was finally looking at them, that awful smile twisting his features. **1**  
“I don’t like it when you two keep secrets from me.” Kevin and Neil went back to stare at Antony’s monologue.

As Kevin predicted, Matt was all up in Neil’s space the second he spotted him in the wings. He checked on him and asked questions as soon as the three actors found themselves alone, during a dead moment. Andrew was on stage, on his battlefield, barking orders and looking angerly, but, as Neil hastily told Matt what had taken place during the scene, his friend managed to look even more deadly than the blond did.  
“You need to fight back, man.” Kevin chocked on his Gatorade “You need to teach him a lesson or, by the end of the season, you’ll be mush.”  
“Absolutely not.” was Kevin’s stark response.  
“I wish I could be on that stage to fight him myself.” said Matt, pointedly ignoring Kevin’s protests.   
“Trust me,” Neil scoffed holding up his already blueing wrist “you don’t want to.”  
“You need to fight back, eye for an eye. I know him, if you’ll fight him with his own weapons – he’ll stop.” Neil, who had already made up his mind, looked at Kevin. He searched his face and all he saw was a newfound confidence. Kevin looked like he did on stage, he looked like he had on that lake, seconds before pouncing on Seth.   
“ _Here is my hand,_ ” he said, a tragic hero’s words echoing in his own “ _the deed is worthy doing_.”  
“ _And so say I._ ” replied Neil. **2**

** 1 Kevin: ** did he hit you? **Neil:** did he hit anyone else? **Kevin:** Just the two of us. Matt saw it, lie when he asks you. **Neil:** I won’t lie–  
 **2** Henry VI, Part II

_SCENE 9_

On November 22nd, the avalanche had grown in size so much so that if Neil had just only looked up, he would’ve, could’ve, seen it coming. It was looming over his head by then, like a huge, threatening shadow. But Neil refused to notice it and that night, when he got onto the stage, he didn’t stop to relish in the thrill of the applauses that – from that day onwards – wouldn’t have ever sounded the same again. He didn’t bask in the warmth of the stage lights. He didn’t pay attention to Seth’s voice enthralling the audience.   
As Act III rolled around, Neil pointedly ignored Andrew’s shark like stares as he and Kevin nodded conspiratorially to each other. That night, when Neil went to stab Seth – and Seth went to push Neil off of him – the shorter man fought back. To the untrained eye of the audience, the fight looked like a well-choreographed scene: Casca stabbed Caesar and the tyrant grabbed for the conspirator’s wrists to stop him; yet, when Caesar attempted to push Casca away, the man elbowed Caesar in his fall – sending him reeling backwards. Casca was on the floor by the time a minor conspirator stepped forward to grab a stunned Caesar to finish his job. Several others assassins grabbed him and pushed him as their knives disappeared into his body. When Brutus finally walked over to him, his knife hit Caesar’s body with enough force that the tyrant finally fell to the floor with a loud _thump_. The “ _Et tu, Brute?_ ” that came out from his stunned lips was barely more than a whisper.

On November 22nd, a Friday, the foxes came together to celebrate the start of their season. After Calpurnia’s final monologue, Allison had snuck out of the theater to set up their Foxhole for a party, possibly aided by Renee. They had managed to run back on stage for curtain call.  
By the time Neil had changed out of his costume, wiped all of his makeup off and walked back to their home, the party was already in full swing. He spotted the few fourth-years that he knew as he walked around: Jeremy was captivating the crowd with a heartfelt dissertation on Nietzsche, Kevin right at his side nodding along to his insights. Although, as Neil spotted the bottle of vodka in his friend’s hands, he highly doubted Kevin’s ability to understand a deeper discussion centered around _what truly lies beyond good and evil_. Katelyn, surrounded by her fellow ballerinas, was attempting to teach Renee and some choir majors the difference between a _demi-plie_ and a _grande-plie_ with what Neil perceived as way-too-much energy. Aaron sat on a couch a few steps away, a beer in hand and eyes trained on his girl. As he bypassed several students cheerfully complimenting him on his performance, he made his way to the kitchen: it was more crowded than he expected it to be but, in a corner, he spotted Andrew contentedly eating ice cream while sitting on a countertop – a smile still present on his face. He didn’t even look up from his dessert when Neil settled next to him, eyes scanning the kitchen “That was a nice beating you gave Seth,” he hummed around his chocolate covered spoon “why wasn’t I invited?”   
Neil considered telling him he _really didn’t know what he was talking about_ , but Neil knew lying to Andrew was useless so, instead he decided to not speak at all.  
“Were you afraid I’d pull a real knife on him?” it took Neil some time to realize that Andrew wasn’t looking at his ice-cream can anymore, instead his eyes were focused on his black armbands, a devious grin flashing on his face – the thrill failing to reach his eyes. To make sure no one could eavesdrop on them, Andrew crouched down from his spot on the counter to whisper in Neil’s ear. Neil fought hard to concentrate on the blond’s words instead of the close proximity of his lips to his skin “I understand that Kevin is too much of a theater junkie to first-handedly ruin his own show, but I must have given you more credit than you deserve, _rabbit_.” Neil, who hadn’t heard that nickname in years, shivered; he was all too aware that saying the wrong thing with a pissed off _and_ drugged Andrew would result in very unpleasant consequences.   
“We have a deal.” Andrew whispered through gritted teeth. He still remembered the final conversation he had with Andrew about it. Neil’s resolve to keep quiet cracked.  
“Not with me remember? Take your complaints up with the individual concerned.” By the end of their freshman year, Andrew had walked up to him to offer him a deal: he’d help him keep Kevin out of trouble and Andrew would keep Neil from running away. He had refused, by then Neil didn’t need any incentives to stay, he wanted to be a fox, badly. He already wanted to stay, Andrew wouldn’t have been able to do much more than that.  
Neil turned his head around, only inches apart from Andrew’s and he simply stared at him. Hazel eyes into blue ones.  
“The _individual concerned_ is growing a mind of his own and is beginning to think he can defy my choices.” Neil realized that, were Andrew sober, he probably wouldn’t have talked to Neil. Sober-Andrew didn’t deal with things like that, Sober-Andrew sat in silence until he came up with a plan on his own.  
And, because Neil’s curiosity was his Achille’s heel when it came to Andrew, he pushed his luck further just to see where it would take him and said: “Sounds like that’s your own problem.”  
“It soon will be your _own_ problem if you don’t stop prompting him to do stupid stuff.”  
Neil wanted to argue that he wasn’t spurring Kevin to do _anything_ , but what he said instead was “Are you threatening me?”  
Andrew’s face split into an amused, dark smile. They were still standing inches away from each other.  
“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.” A few heartbeats of silence, the sounds of the party only idle background noise “You either stop inciting him to do dumb shit or I’ll make you stop.”  
This time, Neil actively complained “I’m not an instigator.” but Andrew simply stared at him, his eyes lit up with a fire Neil had rarely seen in him.  
“Don’t let me repeat myself, Josten.”  
And, even Neil shocked himself when he blurted out “What do I gain from it.”   
After knowing Andrew for years, he knew that – drugs or not – his deals were always transactional: something in exchange for something else. They had been trading truths and stories that way for three years.   
A tightening of Andrew’s jaw, a flicker of his eyelashes.  
“I won’t kill you.”  
“You wouldn’t kill me anyway,” Neil pushed him on “not until the end of the year, at least.”  
“Don’t give me a reason to.”  
“What do I gain from it.” Repeated Neil, faintly aware that, by now, they had attracted several curious stares – he could feel them like small shivers on his back, or maybe it was just the excitement of the negotiation.  
“My protection.” Neil faltered; he wasn’t expecting that.  
“I can protect myself.” Andrew’s eyes lowered to his bruised wrists; one eyebrow slightly cocked in a silent challenge. Neil thought about Kevin jumping in the lake, to separate him from Seth – he hadn’t stopped to think about what would’ve happened had Kevin not intervened, would he have ended up drowned before anyone else could’ve stopped him? Had Kevin intervened because he knew Andrew wouldn’t have bothered to?  
After much too long, Neil shrugged and pulled away from their impasse. Instantly, the sounds of the party overwhelmed his ears, he felt like he had awoken back to reality after a collapse. “Okay, deal.” He told Andrew and moved out of the way before he could receive an answer. Before Andrew could backtrack – although Neil knew that Andrew never, ever backtracked; especially on his promises.  
He gingerly walked over to the other side of the kitchen. He pretended to look busy with the drinks, smelled the punch – that presumably Renee had set up – for the telltale scent of alcohol and then poured himself some when he didn’t catch anything other than the scent of sugary fruit. He was busy nursing his non-alcoholic drink when someone else approached him. Neil blinked up at the stranger, recognition refusing to settle in no matter how long he stared at his face.  
“Great job on stage tonight, I wanted to attend the premiere but the tickets were already sold out when I went to get them.” The stranger was all smiles and coy eyes and Neil made a point to step even closer to the counter he had at his back.  
“Uh, thanks…” he hesitated. He really couldn’t remember his name.  
“I’m Roland.” He replied with a smile, when Neil’s confusion didn’t clear from his features though, he also added “Ballet department? The really flexible danseur from last year’s La Bayadère?”  
And Neil who, in his four years at Palmetto, had never attended even one dance show, nodded in understanding and only half-heartedly attempted to make his “Ah, yes.” sound convincing.   
Deep down, he hoped the conversation would end at that, but _Roland_ ’s smile turned malicious and Neil realized that the dancer wasn’t there to play introductions “I’ve been wondering whether there was something between you and Andrew ever since Halloween, thank you for confirming my suspicions.” Roland jokingly elbowed him in the ribs.   
“Huh?”  
“The sexual tension when you came out covered in blood was so high, dude.”  
Neil blinked and flickered a puzzled look Andrew’s way – who had gone back to eating his ice-cream, utterly uncaring of the world – and when his attention turned back to Roland, he only articulated an all-encompassing “ _What?_ ”  
“Weren’t you two just flirting?” It was Roland’s turn to look puzzled, the two guys’ expressions now a perfect mirror of each other’s “And… I mean, your wrists?”  
“What about my wrists?” Asked Neil, scrutinizing the purple ringlets that adorned them, like he could find the answer in it. Roland opened his mouth to let out an incredulous laugh, but the sound was cut short as a loud commotion rattled the room.  
Seth had rumbled into the room, Allison and Renee hot on his heels. Allison was screaming at him at the top of her lungs that he hadn’t been invited and Renee was simply following the exchange – ready to intervene. Yet, Seth had his eyes searching and purposeful, probably scanning the kitchen for the actors that had fought him back on stage and had, to Neil’s satisfaction, given him somewhat of a black eye. Except, Allison had never been the person to accept getting ignored and her manicured hands grabbed his arms before Seth could spot Neil standing by the stoves.   
“I’m talking to you, asshole; you’re _not_ invited.” After four years of being constantly exposed to Seth and Allison’s dysfunctional relationship, Neil had gotten used to hearing them fight and cuss each other out. Neil had never, however, heard Allison’s tone quite so icy. Underneath her powerful attitude, Neil realized, lay a layer of what he could only describe as loathing. It was in that moment that he also became aware of the fact that Allison hadn’t spoken a word to Seth ever since Halloween.  
“Shut up Reynolds this is also my house.” It was clear by his answer that Seth, on the other hand, hadn’t quite picked up on Allison’s not-so-veiled newfound distaste. She clutched his arm tighter, forcing him to turn and look at her.  
“It’s not anymore.” She spat.  
“Stop causing a scene Allison, this is not about you for once.” Then, when she didn’t move, he snarled “Not everything can be about you, you know?”  
And by the slap that almost immediately followed the taunt, it was clear he had purposefully struck a nerve. The hit resounded into the silent kitchen like a gunshot.  
“You wanted a scene?” she shrieked, her face red with anger. And then she was gone, out of the house in a flurry of movements and heels clacking. Before anyone could recoil from what had just happened, Seth was in motion and ready to fight the first person in front of him: a scrawny boy that Neil didn’t know. Several older boys – Roland being one of them - were already trying to pry him apart from the defenseless kid who had done nothing wrong other than _looking_ and _standing too close_ to him. Neil didn’t know what pushed him forward, perhaps the knowledge that the kid was withstanding the rage that had originally been intended for him, or perhaps it was the fire that constantly flowed in his vein when a member of his _family_ got hurt, or _perhaps_ it was the knowledge that soon enough Seth would give up on the vulnerable boy and reach for someone else – and Andrew was standing mere feet away. With little ceremony, he grabbed the seniors attempting – and failing – to disentangle the fight and pushed them aside until he was face to face with Seth. In the man in front of him there was no trace of what had been a fellow actor and somewhat of a friend: from up-close, without all the layers on makeup hiding it on stage, Seth’s eyebags looked scarily sunken in and his complexion, that had once looked warm and sun kissed, now appeared ashy and sickly. Seth looked like an undead, eerie version of himself. He was Caesar’s ghost coming to haunt Brutus the night before the Battle of Philippi, an evil spirit bound to murder and destroy.   
Neil very much expected the punch that came soon after. It was sheer force and anger and hatred. It had the weight of a cataclysm suddenly crashing on your head. It rattled Neil’s brains for a few seconds, before he himself pouched on Seth to reiterate: they were a whirlwind of limbs and blows after that. Neil could feel desperate hands attempting to tug him away, but he wouldn’t surrender to them – couldn’t walk away from the fight. Until he felt a familiar clutch on his neck, tugging at him by the scruff like you’d do with a kitten. The familiar scent of cigarettes reached his nostrils and, finally, Neil let himself be wrenched away – mere seconds before another one of Seth’s blows came his way. The loss of a target made Seth stagger for a few moments, giving some of the seniors the chance to seize him as well, grabbing him by the arms and forcibly yanking him backwards. No one spoke a word.  
With his fingers still digging into Neil’s neck, Andrew guided him out of the kitchen like a scolding mother would with his child. They climbed the stairs in silence, under the watchful eyes of the few people who had chosen not to rush to the kitchen to assess the situation and, still in complete laconism, they reached Andrew’s room. Once inside, Andrew locked the door behind himself and, with a nudge of his head towards the window, wordlessly ordered Neil to head out to the roof.  
“Is your learning curve a horizontal line?” Andrew’s expression was slowly turning back to its normal apathetic stillness, yet a hint of exasperation was still clear in his voice. Neil wondered how long it would be before the drugs would completely leave his system “What did I just tell you half an hour ago?”  
Neil, like a schooled child, refused to answer.   
“Stop going full-on martyr, Josten. It’s useless and uncalled for.”   
“Why do you even care.” Neil himself heard the peevishness in his tone, but his face was hurting and he was still very angry and fuming at what had played out in the kitchen only moments beforehand – he felt entitled to his petulance.   
“I don’t.” a flicker of a lighter as Andrew lit his cigarette. Instead of putting the lighter away, Andrew unceremoniously moved it towards Neil’s face, the feeble light barely illuminating his features. “It’s going to bruise badly; Kevin will have a fit about it and it’ll be your fault.”  
A shrug of shoulders “I’ll have Allison hide it with concealer.”  
They fell into a somewhat comfortable silence, the party’s noise reached them from the garden below them – they were sitting facing the lake this time, the small sliver of water no longer comforting as it had been mere weeks before.  
“Why Kevin is following your lead is beyond me. He thinks he can go full tragic hero now thanks to you.”  
“I didn’t do anything.”  
Andrew didn’t look at him and said “Next time something happens you’re going to stand down and let me deal with it.”  
In that moment, Neil realized just how tired of arguing and fighting he really felt. Agreeing with Andrew should’ve been easy, Neil just needed to nod his head and let their usual silence fill the air; instead, he opened his mouth to say: “What about you, though.”  
Andrew’s head slowly turned his way, but he refused to ask what Neil meant. There was no need for him to ask though, because Neil could spot the question in his hazel eyes.  
“If we all stand down, who protects you?” And maybe it was the drugs still clouding Andrew’s brain, because a flicker of surprise danced on his features.  
“I don’t need protecting.” Neil just shrugged, his body language conveying a strong _I don’t care, I’m not going to listen anyway_ that Andrew perfectly caught onto, because he followed with a resounding “I’m going to kill you. I can’t stand you anymore.”  
Silence fell on them until Neil remembered the weird conversation he had in the kitchen, before all hell broke loose. Looking at his own wrists, he inquired “Do you know a Roland?”  
Andrew shrugged, so Neil pushed again “He thinks you’re tying me down.” What was meant to be an incisive joke came out more as a question. When Andrew refused to respond, Neil insisted “He also talked about sexual tension, why would we have sexual tension? You can’t stand me.”  
“I _hate_ you.” Corrected him Andrew “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.”  
And Neil, with his constantly running mouth and his sophisticated vocabulary, scanned his brain for something to say in one of the many languages he knew. He could only come up with a refined “ _Oh._ ”  
“Josten.” Andrew’s face was back to his characteristically apathetic stillness “I _hate_ you, so don’t get bizarre ideas.”  
“Only ninety-one percent of the time.” Neil recalled smugly.   
“I always hate you. Ninety-one percent of the time I want to murder you.” But Neil wasn’t listening to him anymore, Andrew caught sight of his faint smirk “Ninety-two percent.”  
With a melodramatic sweeping motion, Neil moved to grab Andrew’s cigarette straight from his mouth and then recited “ _Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!_ ” **1** smoke dancing with Neil’s movements.  
“Shut up.” Andrew’s tone was dark and he was gritting his teeth. For a fleeting moment the possibility that he would push Neil off the roof made itself known in the redhead’s mind and, despite all odds, his smirk grew bigger. “Stop that.”  
But Neil wouldn’t stop grinning, getting on Andrew’s nerves was such a rare occurrence that it was more amusing than scary. He watched as Andrew shook out a new cigarette out of the packet and threw it directly in Neil’s face, as an attempt to make him stop. But with the adrenaline from the show and the fight still flowing in his veins, Neil couldn’t quite drop it. Andrew reached out to his neck, grabbing it and pushing Neil’s face closer. For an awkward few seconds, Neil thought Andrew would headbutt him out of annoyance. Then, like lightning and thunder in a blue, cloudless sky, Andrew’s lips were on his. It felt like electricity coursing through him, like a magnetic force was pushing and pulling them all at the same time. The kiss radiated lust and hate in equal measure and Neil couldn’t help but feel bewitched by it. His hands, still holding the stolen cigarette, were trembling uncontrollably as he returned the kiss with as much emotion and intenseness as what he felt. Wanting more, he began to fidget closer, lured in by the siren call of Andrew’s warmth, when a clamor broke them out of their stupor. Andrew instantly moved to create more distance between them, much to Neil’s disappointment, as shadows moved in the garden below. When he detected Renee’s tone in the disorderly chaos of voices – calling out to someone to “ _stop that_ ” in a manner that almost didn’t feel like Renee – Neil sharply focused his attention downwards: the house lights painted the figures below in a sickly yellow shade that prevented Neil from seeing their faces clearly, but Neil would be able to spot his foxes anywhere and in the bedlam of shadows and figures he made out Seth’s hunched frame as he pushed Allison out of his route.  
Mere moments before, Neil had been in a warm and dazing stupor, kissing Andrew and letting it envelop him. Now, he was back to the harsh and strident reality. He forced himself to turn to Andrew, forced himself to look away from the now-empty garden – aside from a strange, ominous shadow, that Neil chose to pay little mind to - and towards the blond in front of him.   
“Go the fuck to sleep, I’m not doing this with you right now.” He barked, but Neil didn’t move.  
“Why not?”  
“I shouldn’t even be here now.” Andrew was gritting his teeth and for the first time since the beginning of the party, Neil thought about Kevin and he realized that Andrew had, voluntarily, left him downstairs, alone, with a violent Seth in his vicinities. “Besides, you’re too stupid to say no.”  
“But–” attempted Neil and stopped dead in his tracks when Andrew simply sent a murderous glance his way.  
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Go to your room, I don’t want to see your fucked face anymore.” And for the first time in his life, Neil stood up and obediently did what he was told. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, all he could focus on was Andrew. His lips, his warmth, the fact that had refused to talk about it, but the hopefulness that came with that _right now._ By the time he reached his own room, _right now_ was ringing in his ears on repeat.

The second he opened the door to his room, a heavy weight landed on him, vehemently squeezing and prodding. He recognized Matt’s scent immediately, so he let himself relax in the – fervent – embrace.  
“I was _so_ worried, man.” Matt’s speech was slightly slurred, indicating that he had been drinking “Lock the door while I call Dan to let her know you’re okay.”  
Neil frowned both at the request and at the very prominent worried tone of his friend. He complied without asking questions and then went to sit on his bed, waiting for Matt to finish his phone call. By the time he was done, Matt sat back on his own bed – facing Neil – and fixed a pointed stare on him.  
“We didn’t force that phone” a glare towards Neil’s flip phone sitting on his nightstand “on you for you to leave it here. We were so worried dude.”  
Neil felt puzzled. He had been gone fore less than an hour, the foxes were used to him disappearing for way longer periods of time  
“Seth went full berserk after Andrew dragged you away; started barging in every room in this corridor to try and find you. He also spent several minutes banging on Kevin and Andrew’s room like a gorilla. It took five people to wrench him away – we thought he was going to break it.” The two of them both grimaced at the idea “It was awful, Jeremy had to hide Kevin in the bathroom downstairs.”  
“Is he okay?” Neil wasn’t used to feeling guilty, it wasn’t an emotion he experienced often. To him, guilt smelt of smoke and tasted like ashes on his tongue, it felt like cool ocean breeze and looked like fire. He hadn’t felt guilt in years but, as he thought about Kevin – scared and defenseless – hiding in a bathroom while he made out with the man who was supposed to protect him got him feeling, Neil realized swore he could hear the waves of the sea, the seagulls squawk and-  
“Yeah, Seth wasn’t looking for him.” A small silence, Neil could see Matt’s hesitation as he continued “Some sophomores saw you and Andrew go up the stairs together, they told Seth and he- you know how he is…” Matt was twisting his hands around “he started saying homophobic shit. Even Minyard’s twin got angry, and that guy isn’t exactly…” Matt didn’t need to continue, because Neil knew – they all did. On the very few occasions they had interacted with Aaron, he hadn’t been able to keep the ignorant slurs to himself, especially the ones directed to his own cousin Nicky.  
Matt: “Where have you been anyway?”  
Neil, scratching his head: “Uh… How are the others? The girls?”  
If Matt noticed the blatant deflection, he chose to ignore it.

**1** Romeo and Juliet

_SCENE 10_

Neil woke to the sound of fingertips scraping his bedroom door. Timid and feeble light was trickling into the room, but birds were still silent and asleep. He surveyed Matt’s sleeping form on the other side of the room before approaching the bedroom door. On the other side he found Renee, who offered him a tentative smile, but even in the meager light Neil could see her watery eyes, the slight shake in her figure.  
“You need to come by the lake,” she said, voice cracking. Her eyes looked past Neil and landed on Matt “the both of you.”  
By the time they reached the Foxhole’s front door, everyone but Seth was already there. They were all wearing their pajamas except for Renee, who was in her running clothes. Together, they walked over to the lake in ghostly silence, the weight of the world on their shoulders.

In his _De Poetica,_ Aristotle defines hamartia as a tragic mistake. It’s the small, little error that defines the point of no return, the final step before doom. Hamartia is the first trickle of snow rushing down a slope. And, by the time that small droplet of snow has picked up enough speed, there’s nothing and no one that can stop it. It’s inevitable, albeit sometimes unforeseeable, that it will eventually hit. It can take a long time for it to gain speed. But, eventually, it comes rushing down. And when it does, it rattles mountain, it ruins villages. With its force, it can wipe out landscapes, it can submerge them entirely.  
When the avalanche comes, it means downfall and destruction. It comes thundering and, when you notice, you can’t help but stand there, helpless, and watch its _abasement_. You can stand your ground and accept it, or you can run, but there’s no stopping an avalanche, there’s no stopping hamartia.  
On November 23rd, the avalanche ultimately crashed down on the foxes. And, they stood their ground by the edge of the lake, as they stared, destitute, at Seth’s lifeless body floating in the waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Hopefully this chapter wasn’t too boring, I’m sorry about the homophobia mention I usually try my best to avoid it because it makes me feel uhhHHhhHh not great but I made up for it by killing the homophobic prick at least?   
> Let me know what you think with a comment/kudos those are **greatly appreciated. pls?**  
>  I’m still looking for a **beta** so if you’re interested hit me up on my [tumblr](http://nattsunoyume.tumblr.com/), or even here.  
> I’m also writing a lighter fanfiction ([a figure skating au](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965365/chapters/52415293)) so check it out if you like my writing, cue: no one checks it out because my writing is a _mess_.  
> I decided that, as a parting gift, I’ll leave you with some of my _random_ google searches because sometimes they’re very funny. So here they are:
> 
> _Flirty Shakespearean sentences_
> 
> _What does punch taste like_
> 
> _What noise do seagulls make_
> 
> _Thank you for reading,_
> 
> _Nicole :)_


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